by Julie Hyzy
Just then, the door opened and Craig Sanderson came in. Craig was a tall agent, handsome and crisp. As Tom’s supervisor, he was aware of our relationship, but had enough regard for Tom that he preferred to remain “officially” uninformed.
Craig and I were cordial to one another. There were times his Appalachian drawl sent shivers up my spine. This was one of them. “Ms. Paras,” he said slowly. “Why am I not surprised to discover your involvement in this terrible tragedy?”
“Hi Craig,” I said, striving for informal. The less formal, the less intense our conversation would be. At least, that was what I hoped.
“Please, have a seat, Ms. Paras.”
This time, I sat.
Craig took the wing chair opposite mine and the two detectives came around to flank him. They both held open small notebooks-a lot like the one Craig now held poised, waiting for me to speak. But what could I possibly say?
Tom and Paul stood on either side of my wing chair, and I twitched against the nubby fabric. I didn’t want to stain the armrests, so I wiped both hands on the front of my slacks. I’d thrown on white canvas pants, a white T-shirt, and a light gray hoodie this morning. Although the day was cool, I was itching to remove my sweatshirt. The fireplace next to me wasn’t burning, but I felt what it was like to sit in the hot seat.
“Agent Brewster talked with me this morning,” I said to break the silence. Too late, I remembered the old adage “He who speaks first, loses.”
Craig arched his brows. “And what did Agent Brewster have to say?”
“Not much,” I said, wondering why I’d even brought it up. “He seems to think my kitchen-or I-had something to do with Agent Minkus’s death.”
“Did you?”
I blinked. “Of course not.”
Craig’s mouth twisted sideways. He wrote nothing, but the two detectives scribbled furiously. The forty-something woman-Wallerton-was tall and thin to the point of emaciation. I’d characterize her features as skeletal, and her wispy blonde hair did nothing to contradict that observation. The other detective, Fielding, was older. He had the look of a man who’d seen a lot in his day, but rather than fit the stereotype of paunchy veteran detective, he was trim and good-looking, with dark hair that was just beginning to go gray at the temples. Neither of them smiled.
Craig eased back in his seat, slightly. “We have a preliminary report from the medical examiner,” he said.
I held my breath. “Already?”
Dumb question. This was the White House. Everything was done expeditiously. When something was needed, all stops were pulled out until it was accomplished.
“What did they say?” I asked, inching forward. “Do they think it was a heart attack?”
Craig’s mouth turned down in a way that made my own heart drop. “It was not a myocardial infarction.”
I swallowed.
The two detectives glanced up at me, then continued to write.
“What was it?” I asked.
“We expect to have more information within a day or two.”
I wanted to scream, “Just tell me!” but I pulled my hands together on my lap and clasped my fingers, hard. “My kitchen is clear, right?”
Craig did that thing with his mouth again. When he fixed me with a stare, I felt my insides turn to jelly. Hot, slippery jelly. Like the kind Polish bakers fill their paczki with every Fat Tuesday. “No,” he said.
My voice came out in a whisper. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” I felt a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t know if it was Paul’s or Tom’s. My vision telescoped, focusing solely on Craig’s angry stare, and after the whoosh in my head silenced, all I could hear were pens scraping against notepaper.
“The medical examiner believes that Carl Minkus ingested something at dinner that killed him.”
I sucked in a gasp. “ ‘Ingested something that killed him’?” I repeated the words, but my brain couldn’t accept the meaning.
Craig continued. “The medical examiner is doing very in-depth toxicology screenings today. They’re waiting on results, but we won’t have answers for a while.”
I shook my head. This wasn’t happening. “But that doesn’t mean it was something he ate… something we served. Couldn’t he have eaten something at lunch that did this?”
Craig wasn’t budging. “Doctor Michael Isham is one of the finest pathologists in the country. We will have to wait and see what he says.”
“But…”
“Until we can prove that food served at last night’s dinner was not responsible for Carl Minkus’s death, you and your staff are banned from the White House kitchen.”
“But the Easter Egg Roll,” I said. “It’s a week from today.”
“The Easter Egg Roll is not my concern.”
“We have a lot of work to do. I mean… this is a big deal. Surely the president and First Lady understand that. How can we prepare for the Egg Roll if we aren’t allowed in the kitchen?”
Craig licked his lips, but I interrupted before he could answer.
“And what about preparing regular meals!” I was growing indignant. I knew we could probably keep the house running by utilizing the family kitchen on the second floor, but that would certainly not give us enough space to prepare for the entire Egg Roll extravaganza. “We need the kitchen,” I said pertly. The cafeteria on the basement-mezzanine level was an option, too, but I much preferred working in the kitchen I called home-the main kitchen on the ground floor.
“Until you are cleared, you won’t be preparing any food at all.”
“But the other kitchens…”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “It isn’t just the kitchens we’re investigating. We’re investigating all of you.”
My mouth dropped open. Again I felt a hand on my shoulder. I was pretty sure it was Paul. “You can’t be serious,” I said.
“When the safety of the president of the United States is at stake, I’m dead serious.”
I pulled my lips shut-tightly, to prevent an outburst. Then: “What about the other guests?”
My question seemed to take Craig aback; the two detectives, too. They stopped writing long enough to send me quizzical looks.
“So far, the other guests are unaffected,” he said. “But I understand you prepared a separate entrée for Carl Minkus. He was served food that the other guests did not touch.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Mr. Minkus is vegetarian, and we made sure to follow his dietary guidelines exactly.” I raised a finger and shook it for emphasis. “I made certain to personally oversee everything that went out that night.” I knew such a statement put me at higher risk for investigation, but it was true. Nothing went out without my approval. “But if he had an allergy that we were unaware of-”
“His medical records indicate no such allergy.”
“Maybe he recently developed one.”
“Maybe you’re grasping at straws.” Craig consulted notes for a brief moment, then met my eyes. “You told Jack Brewster that you had two guest chefs in the kitchen yesterday.”
“Suzie and Steve,” I said. “The SizzleMasters.”
The female detective shot a questioning look at the handsome older detective. He supplied the answer, and I heard his voice for the first time. “It’s on the Food Channel,” he said. “Suzie and Steve are big into steaks and barbecue. They have their own show.” He shrugged. “It’s pretty good.”
Craig didn’t look at him. “Why were they in the White House kitchen?”
“This is what I was trying to tell Agent Brewster,” I said. “We were filming a segment for the SizzleMasters show. It’s kind of like one of those challenge cooking shows where the TV personality shows up and challenges the competitor. We were working on the filets for last night’s dinner and the network planned to air the segment about three weeks from now.”
Paul interjected. “I approved this because Mrs. Campbell was very much in favor of giving viewers an intimate look inside the White House kitchen.”
Craig looked confused, so I said, “We were not only being challenged by the SizzleMasters, we were serving the food prepared during the challenge.” I waved both hands in front of me to ward off an anticipated argument. “But we weren’t filming the guests actually enjoying what we’d prepared. We made extra for our judges.”
“Judges?”
“We enlisted a couple of the butlers to sample the steaks. It’s part of the schtick for the TV show.”
Craig held up a hand. “I do not care about ‘schtick.’ What I do care about is the fact that we have a dead guest on our hands. A very prominent, very dead, guest. And I believe we are trying to find out what he may have ingested that took his life. Carl Minkus was a vegetarian, correct?”
“Yes, but-”
“Then I do not see the relevance in discussing this television challenge. I do not see what bearing any of this has on our investigation.”
Exasperated by the slow deliberation of his cadence, I rushed to get my words out. “We had cameras rolling the entire time. They were supposed to send me a copy. I’m sure if you contact the production company, you’ll be able to get one, too.”
Craig glanced up to the female detective. She nodded, and Paul accompanied her out of the room.
Chalk one up for me.
“Did anybody else have a vegetarian meal at dinner yesterday?” Detective Fielding asked.
“No,” I said. “We made Mr. Minkus’s dinner especially for him.”
My stomach dropped when I realized what I’d said. Why not just take out a full-page ad, announcing that the White House kitchen killed Carl Minkus?
Fielding flipped a page in his notebook. “What about side dishes? Salads? Desserts? Was there anything that all the guests ate?”
“Sure,” I said. I rattled off the prior evening’s menu, and told him that in addition to Carl Minkus’s sesame eggplant entrée, he’d been served a lemon-broccoli side dish, a salad with homemade dressing, and he’d shared in one of Marcel’s spectacular desserts. “That you’ll have to get from Marcel. I know it involved spun sugar and ice cream, but beyond that-”
Craig interrupted. “He is being questioned as well.”
“But no one else has gotten sick, right?” I asked hopefully.
“As of this moment,” Craig said, “that is correct.”
“You have the entire guest list?” I was pushing it, I knew, but I wanted to be sure they knew I was willing to help in any way I could. “We added Philip and Francine Cooper at the last minute yesterday.”
“We have the entire list,” Craig said.
Fielding grimaced, but dutifully wrote it down. “I didn’t have that.”
Craig didn’t like to be one-upped. He went through the entire guest list with Fielding, ticking off names as he spoke.
“Ruth Minkus was in attendance with her husband. Additionally, we had Philip Cooper; his wife, Francine; and Alicia and Quincy Parker,” he said.
At the mention of Alicia Parker’s name, Craig winced. Everyone knew our fiery defense secretary.
“Don’t forget the president and First Lady,” I said. “They were there, too.”
Craig gave me a lips-only smile. “Yes, we are aware of that.”
Detective Wallerton returned, and together with Detective Fielding and Craig they questioned me about everything that went on in the kitchen yesterday. I remembered almost every detail, but told them I needed to consult my files for a few of the ingredients used to prepare Mr. Minkus’s meal. After listening to my exhaustive recitation and taking plenty of notes, the detectives seemed satisfied with my answers.
Craig surprised us all by turning his attention to Tom. “Agent MacKenzie, how long have you been on duty?” Before Tom could answer, Craig continued, “You have been here for over twenty-four hours. More than thirty, in fact. Am I correct?”
Tom nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Go home, Agent.”
Tom started to argue that as a ranking Secret Service agent during a crisis, his place was at the White House, but Craig cut him off. “You are relieved. Get some sleep. And don’t come back until you do.”
Tom left without further comment, but I knew how disappointed he must be. I was disappointed as well. His silent presence had been a comfort.
By the time they were done asking me everything fourteen times each, I was sticky and clammy and wished I could race home and shower. Then I remembered Mom and Nana.
I glanced at my watch. Eight thirty. I’d never make it to Dulles in twenty minutes. Even if I were cleared to leave right now.
“Are we keeping you from something?” Craig asked.
Drained from the nonstop queries, I didn’t even bother to explain. “No,” I said, hoping that when I wasn’t there to meet them, my mother didn’t hustle Nana on the next flight back to Chicago.
Finally dismissed, I was led to the door. “So who will take care of the First Family’s meals?” I asked.
Craig sniffed. “Several of our agents have agreed to take on that responsibility. They are working out of the second floor kitchen and the Mess.”
My face must have telegraphed my disbelief, because he added, “Some of our agents are quite talented in the culinary arts. One of them was a full-time cook in college. He knows what he’s doing.”
I closed my eyes. This was worse than I thought. “What about us?” I asked. “Should I just stay home and twiddle my thumbs until you guys give me the all-clear?”
Craig’s face remained impassive. “Do whatever you like, Ms. Paras,” he said. “But plan on doing it here. You aren’t going home anytime soon.”
CHAPTER 6
WHEN I GOT TO THE LIBRARY, BUCKY AND CYAN were waiting for me. Bucky stood up. “How long do we have to stay here? We’ve got work to do.”
“No,” I said, “we don’t.”
Cyan opened her mouth to question, but I held up a hand. “We’re out of the kitchen until further notice.”
“What?”
“Here’s where we stand,” I said, lowering myself into the wooden armchair Bucky had just vacated. “Until it can be absolutely proven that Carl Minkus didn’t die as a result of our kitchen’s negligence, we are forbidden to prepare food in the White House.”
Bucky paced. “We couldn’t have done anything. I mean… there’s no way. We read his dietary requirements.” He dragged the back of his hand against his forehead. When he turned to me, his face was pale and his voice cracked. “This has never happened before.”
I stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. Surprisingly, he didn’t move away. “We did nothing wrong.”
Bucky shook his head. “This is terrible.”
For the first time, I actually let the truth sink in. A man was dead, possibly as a result of something we’d fed him. Although we’d followed every protocol, the fact remained that our kitchen could be guilty of negligence. I’d been adamant about our innocence, but what if we had been negligent? Then Carl Minkus was dead prematurely. And, as executive chef, blame fell squarely on me.
Bucky practically choked his next words out. “Did you think about botulism?”
I was about to answer when he pushed me aside. He covered his mouth and hurtled himself through the adjacent door.
Cyan jumped to her feet. Disregarding the fact that he had disappeared into the men’s lounge, the two of us followed Bucky in. He’d made it to the lavatory and into one of the stalls just in time. The sound of retching carried through the door. I tapped on the wood paneling. “You okay?”
We heard him cough and spit. “Yeah.”
“Bucky,” I said, “this wasn’t your fault.”
He sniffed, noisily. “I know.”
I held up my hands in a helpless gesture. Cyan shrugged. “Then come out.”
There was a long moment of silence, where we heard nothing but the faint rushing of water through nearby pipes.
Finally, Bucky said, “This is my life.”
I leaned toward the stall door, not knowing how to answer that.
“We’re always so careful,” he said, his voice plaintive. “I’ve never worked anywhere with such stringent guidelines. And I like it that way. I want to stay here.”
“Nobody’s kicking us out, Bucky,” I said, trying for levity. “Yet.”
When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper. “What if they let us all go? What if they say we were negligent-even if we weren’t? Then I’ll never get a job anywhere. My entire career will be down the tubes.”
To punctuate his words, he flushed the toilet. Cyan and I exchanged a glance, and stepped a little farther away from the door when we heard the lock turn.
Bucky emerged, looking less sweaty and pale. He wiped a handful of bathroom tissue across his forehead and offered a wobbly smile. “I’ve worked my whole life to get here,” he said. “When I think of how easily it can all be lost…”
Bucky’s eyes glistened and he turned away from us toward the sinks, where he turned on the tap and avoided looking into the mirror.
“Listen,” I started to say.
He shook his head. “The two of you don’t understand. You can’t. I worked hard to get here. I put in the best years of my life-before either of you came to the White House. And I thought I would be named executive chef someday.”
I stood behind him to his right, and in the mirror I could see the weak smile turning sour. He gave me a quick glance. “Instead, they gave it to you.”
There wasn’t much for me to say. This position wasn’t a “gift.” I knew I had earned it and I knew exactly why Henry had chosen me as his successor over Bucky. But I couldn’t say that. Not now.
“Being the first female White House chef is a coup,” he continued. “I get that. I understand that the First Lady had a point to make. But now I see the writing on the wall.” This time his glance was for Cyan. “Ollie is grooming you to take over when she gets rid of me, isn’t she?”
Cyan looked to me for answers. I had none. It was true that Cyan had really come into her own over the past year, but Bucky was a valuable member of my team. I said so.