by Julie Hyzy
Sargeant was talking again. Muttering, actually. I’d missed it. “What did you say?”
“I should never have agreed to work with you. You’re bad luck.” He turned to face the window as the driver pulled up to the hotel. “Look what you’ve gotten me into.”
The moment we alighted, Sargeant—such a gentleman—headed straight away at a brisk pace, leaving me to settle up with the driver. “Thanks,” I said, and asked for a receipt. By the time I made it across 15th Street, Sargeant was at least fifty feet ahead of me. I didn’t bother trying to catch up.
Bucky had everything under control, just like I knew he would. Over the past few months since Virgil Ballantine had joined the White House as the First Family’s personal chef, we in the kitchen had found it necessary to adapt. Technically speaking, Bucky, Cyan, and I were no longer responsible for preparing daily breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for the president and his family. Virgil had made that point quite clear when he started here. I’d originally chafed at the change, but with the amount of entertaining the Hydens did, I slowly came to appreciate Virgil’s contribution, such as it was.
Kitchens as busy as ours can’t exist with such rigid divisions and I’d recently noticed a shift in the personal chef’s attitude. Though Virgil remained protective of his responsibilities, he would occasionally ask for help. In turn, we invited him to join us when preparing for a major event.
That didn’t mean we always got along. When Virgil was stressed, he was intolerable. I’d tried, repeatedly, to talk him down when I sensed he was about to explode. Rarely was I successful. We’d discussed this issue several times but hadn’t found a compromise. Yet.
Virgil looked at the wall clock when I walked through the door. “I can’t believe how long you were gone. Everything is done here except to serve and plate dinner. I thought the four places you were visiting today were within walking distance. Where were they? Maryland?” He gave a light laugh as though making a joke, but nobody thought it was funny.
Ignoring Virgil, I sent a meaningful look to Bucky and Cyan as I made my way to the computer at the far end of the kitchen.
“I knew it,” Bucky said. “I knew it as soon as I got your text. What happened this time?”
Cyan said, “Oh, Ollie.”
Virgil’s face was a total blank. “What are you talking about?”
I didn’t say a word. I merely clicked onto one of the sites we relied on for breaking news and turned up the sound. At the time of the recording, reporters were beginning to gather outside Lexington Place’s front doors. Scrolling headlines reported the “deaths of certain high-ranking officials” but didn’t disclose the victims’ names until their families could be notified.
“Geez,” Bucky said.
“You were there?” Virgil asked.
I didn’t answer him.
He tried again. “Did you see who was killed? Who were the high-ranking officials? Someone we know?”
Cyan’s eyes, bright green today, were sad. “Oh, Ollie,” she said again, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Why is it always you?”
“Why indeed?” I asked.
Virgil’s face contorted, probably with confusion and pain at being left out of the conversation. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”
Bucky sent Virgil a baleful look. “In case you missed it, Ollie has a knack for getting into the middle of things,” quickly adding, “not her fault. Well, not always.” He leaned back, tapping a finger against his lips as though sizing me up. “If I were to venture a guess, she definitely knows who was killed and how it was done. If I were a betting man, I’d even wager she was first on the scene.”
“Nice summary,” I said, “but I can’t confirm or deny.”
Bucky shrugged. “No need. We get it.”
“But why are you all feeling sorry for Olivia?” Virgil asked. “Seems to me you should be feeling sorry for the victims here. Whoever they are.”
“He’s right,” I said. “Sargeant and I had a rough afternoon, but nothing compared to what…” I couldn’t finish, so I shifted gears into more comfortable territory. “I know I’m late, but now that I’m here—”
“Sargeant?” Bucky asked. “He was there, too?”
“Yeah, remember? The two of us were planning to meet…” I faltered again.
Cyan’s face went white. “Nooo…” she said, “not Patty.”
I pressed my lips together, angry at myself for not being more careful and sorry for the bad news I’d inadvertently imparted. “I’m so sorry, Cyan. I never meant to let that slip. I shouldn’t have come back here tonight. I should have waited until you all saw the news. But”—I shrugged—“you guys are my friends and I trust you. Please keep this to yourself until it breaks, okay?”
“Oh my God,” Cyan said, “she was so young.”
“Cyan…” Words failed me.
The phone rang. Virgil didn’t move, so Bucky answered. After a moment, he handed it to me. “It’s for you,” he said, “it’s Paul.”
I felt my shoulders drop. Of course our chief usher would have been apprised by now. Of course he would want to see me. “Ollie,” he said when I answered, “how are you holding up?”
We’d had similar conversations so often, the question was almost laughable. But then I thought about Patty and Mark Cawley squeezed into their tilt-skillet coffins and my throat caught. “I’ve been better.”
“If you’re up to it, please stop by my office. I need to talk with you and Peter. He’s here now.”
“On my way.”
I hung up and looked at my team. “Gotta go. I’m sure Paul wants to warn me about talking to the media. Listen,” I said, thinking ahead, “without getting too specific, I need to let you all know that tonight may turn out to be an all-nighter for the president and First Lady.” I thought about it. “And their staffs. Let’s prepare for that. The butlers will be here ’round the clock, but they’ll need plenty of food to keep everyone’s energy up.”
“What happened, Ollie?” Virgil asked. “There’s more to it than you’re telling us.”
“I’ll tell you what I can, when I can. Until then, let’s keep ourselves in a position to help.”
Cyan’s focus was back on me. “Good thing Tom isn’t here, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said as I headed to see Paul, “good thing.”
Cyan patted me on the shoulder, a sad look on her face. Tom MacKenzie and I had had a romantic relationship until my involvement in extracurricular activities, like this one, drove a wedge between us. As head of the Presidential Protective Division here at the White House, his job was to oversee the protection of the First Family. Mine was to feed them. Problems arose when I inadvertently encroached on his turf.
From the scuttlebutt, I knew Tom had moved on. In fact, he was back home this week, visiting with his high school sweetheart. They’d recently reconnected and from the little I’d heard, she was perfect for him. A tall, pageant-winning blond. As opposite as you could get from a short, dark-haired, carb-watching kind of girl who happened across dead bodies on a regular basis. I was happy for him.
I was happy for myself, too. I’d begun to move on as well, though no one knew it yet. I hadn’t shared anything about this new relationship with anyone. Not even Cyan. I’d vowed to keep my personal life personal this time.
Despite the fact that Tom’s presence, or lack thereof, wasn’t affecting me emotionally, I was still glad he was out of town. Whenever I got drawn into one of these complicated situations, he was quick to blame me for interfering. But this time it had truly just been bad timing and worse luck. I resolved to stay as far away from the investigation as I could.
CHAPTER 4
PAUL STOOD UP WHEN I WALKED INTO HIS office. “Thanks for coming, Ollie.” His salt-and-pepper hair seemed to be growing whiter and thinner by the day. “Close the door,” he said, then gestured for me to take the open seat next to Sargeant, who watched me with disdain.
Paul began. “I’ve spoken with the First Lady
—”
But Sargeant interrupted to fill me in. “Paul says we can’t have Secretary of State Quinones’s birthday party at Lexington Place for obvious reasons. In fact, we’re not even supposed to breathe a word about Lexington Place ever being considered or anything about our visit there today. The White House is stepping away from all this until everything can be sorted out.”
Eyes tight, Paul folded his hands atop the papers on his desk. He was a more patient person than I. Thank goodness. When Sargeant sat back, pleased with himself, I exchanged a look with our chief usher. He had been through a lot over the past few years, but today he looked worn out and older than he should. “That about sums it up,” he said. “Ollie, have you mentioned this to anyone?”
I cringed, remembering my gaffe in the kitchen. “My staff knew I was meeting Patty at Lexington Place. Cyan asked me if Patty was one of the two victims mentioned on the news…” I hesitated. “She—they—put two and two together.”
Sargeant made a tsking noise. “Loose lips sink ships.”
Ignoring the interjection, Paul jotted a note. “I’ll talk with them to make sure no one breathes a word to the press. At this point, it looks like you two made it back without the media sniffing you out.”
“There was the security guard at Lexington we interacted with,” I added, “Jorjanna. And the taxi driver, but we got out at the W Hotel, so maybe he won’t give us a second thought.”
“Good thinking.” Paul scribbled more notes as he chewed his lip. “The guard could be a problem. I’ll look into that. For now, both of you need to lie low. Did you mention going to Lexington Place to anyone else? At any of the other locations you visited?”
“We didn’t want anyone to know who they were up against,” I said. “Wait!” Snapping my fingers, I turned to Sargeant. “You told Milton.”
If looks could kill, I’d be crammed into a tilt-skillet with the lid slammed shut.
“Milton?” Paul asked. His gaze shot toward a pile of papers on his right. He reached to grab them and began to riffle through. “The same person you and I planned to discuss, Peter? He sent me another resume with a letter begging me to give him a try.”
“As I told you before, he’s no one of consequence.”
“He isn’t a relative, then?”
“One chooses one’s friends,” Sargeant sniffed. “Unfortunately the same cannot be said for one’s relatives.”
Hand poised to jot another reminder, Paul pressed the issue. “That’s fine with regard to the job question; I wouldn’t have considered him without your recommendation. The more important issue, however, is what was said to him today. I need to know everyone at risk to leak this to the press.”
“I’ll speak with him immediately and ensure his cooperation.”
Paul looked skeptical.
Sargeant was quick to change the subject. “What about Secretary of State Quinones’s birthday party? Is that still on the agenda? If so, and we’re no longer having it at Lexington Place—a decision I highly support, I might add—then where?”
“Unsure at this point,” Paul said. “In fact, as you already surmised, the entire event may be postponed indefinitely. Once word gets out about the two murders, the White House will be required to display proper respect.” Paul seemed to catch himself. “Which, of course, is exactly correct, given the circumstances.”
Paul was off his game today. Not nearly as smooth and strong as usual. In addition to wondering what was on his mind, I was beginning to question what purpose I served here. The little bit of conversation that had applied to me could have been handled over the phone. Paul must have sensed my impatience because he lowered his voice and leaned forward. “There’s one more thing,” he said. “I wanted you both to hear this from me.”
The crow’s-feet on either side of Paul’s eyes suddenly looked less like smile lines and more like the ravages of age.
“I’m…” He took a deep breath. “…leaving the White House.”
Total silence. I stared at him in disbelief. “Why?”
He fiddled with his pen. “My wife is having health problems and I need to be with her. It’s serious and sudden, but maybe with the right care…” Trying to muster a smile, he said, “The First Family is aware, and I have their full support. Time is of the essence, and I had planned to announce my resignation to the staff tomorrow and to the media the day after. This new situation makes that timing awkward.”
“Paul, I’m so sorry,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”
“There is. You both know Doug Lambert. He’s been an assistant here for several years. Until a permanent successor is named, Doug will serve as interim chief usher. I want you both to work with him as you would me.” He lifted his phone’s receiver and pressed an intercom button. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said into the mouthpiece before hanging up. “In a terrible way, today’s events are working in my favor. I’m leaving immediately—this evening—so that I can be with my wife. News of my resignation will have to wait for a few weeks. No one else on staff is to know I’m gone permanently—not until it’s decided the time is right for the announcement.”
“We have to keep this secret?” Sargeant asked.
“To the rest of the world, I’m just away for a while,” Paul said. “Doug will handle the fallout from today’s tragedy. I would have preferred a smoother transition because he isn’t quite ready. Doug’s going to need your full cooperation. Although he’s been briefed on most of what transpired today, I want to bring him in on your involvement.”
As though on cue, Doug Lambert knocked and entered. I’d worked with him a little in the past but hadn’t gotten to know him very well. About my age, he was dark-haired and tall, with a narrow, peninsula-shaped bald spot that ran from his forehead to the back of his head. Carrying about thirty extra pounds and with his persistently pink cheeks, he would have looked about twelve years old—if it weren’t for the lack of hair.
“You all know each other,” Paul said, standing up.
Doug pulled a chair from the corner and sat down to join us. “I’m sorry to have to take over under these circumstances,” he said, “but I understand we have a situation that needs to be handled discreetly. Let’s get started.”
After about an hour of discussion, our little meeting broke up. I came away feeling the same about Doug as I always had: He was eager and earnest, but lacked the polish and confidence needed for the job of chief usher. I sure hoped he was a fast learner.
Paul had excused himself to talk with the Secret Service about Jorjanna, the security guard at Lexington Place. When he returned and after Doug had been completely apprised of the situation and our involvement, we were finally cut loose for the night. Sargeant murmured sympathetic sentiments to Paul and left, promising to get in touch with Milton immediately.
Paul grabbed his coat as Doug took the chair behind the desk. “I’m sorry to see you go,” he said.
Paul’s eyes grew bright. “I’m sorry to be going.” He shook hands with Doug, then crossed back to accompany me out. “Keep in touch. I’m always available by phone.”
Paul closed the door behind us. “Walk with me.”
We stepped into the darkened entrance hall and made our way toward the stairs, neither of us saying a word. At the room’s very center, just in front of the north doors, Paul took a long look around. “It’s quiet right now.”
I didn’t say anything.
“In a few hours this place will be a madhouse. Again.”
I thought about the press getting wind of the double murder. “Madhouse” was an understatement. “I know.”
He flashed a glance back the way we’d come. “I hope Doug is up to it.”
“I do too.”
Paul seemed to want to say more, but instead he gave the area an extended, loving look. I knew he was saying good-bye. In a moment he started again for the stairs. When we reached the bottom, where he would go east to exit and I west to the kitchen, I took his hand in both of mine. “I hope your wi
fe makes a full recovery,” I said. “Let us know from time to time, will you?”
He promised he would. “Ollie,” he said, “of everyone on staff, you’ve proved to be the most…” He scanned the air for the right word. “…challenging. But the White House is better for having you here. Don’t ever forget that.”
Paul was taking the time to bolster me? I would sorely miss this man. “Thank you.”
“Ollie.” This time his voice held an edge. “I’m not going to tell you not to get involved this time because you already are. Just please, watch your back, okay? Doug doesn’t know you the way I do. Keep him updated. Regularly. Don’t do any end-runs around him. He’s a good guy and I’m confident he’ll do right if you do right by him.”
“I will,” I said, “but I don’t plan to get further involved this time.”
A small smile curled Paul’s lips. “You never do.”
“No, really…”
“Ollie, one more thing,” he said in a low voice, stopping me mid-protest, “about Sargeant. This is between you and me and…” He gestured toward the nearby protective case. “…the Remington sculpture. The Hydens aren’t too taken with our sensitivity director.”
“No?” This was news.
“Steer clear of him as much as you can. He’s been making…mistakes lately. Several of them. I think he senses the First Lady’s displeasure, and you know Sargeant. He’ll do anything to push blame on someone else. And he’s always kept a target on your back. Just be careful.”
I nodded.
“And be patient,” he added quickly. “They won’t cut him loose anytime soon. One more misstep on his part, however…”
“I get it,” I said. As much as I didn’t wish bad luck on anyone, I knew life would be much happier with a Sargeant-free White House. After all the bad news today, this was a little bit of a day-brightener. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“You take care of yourself,” Paul said, giving my hand a squeeze. “And don’t be a stranger.”