by Julie Hyzy
At that point, the White House press secretary came through the doorway, escorting Mrs. Quinones and her father. Secretary Quinones brought up the rear.
Mrs. Quinones’s face was even more red and puffy than it had appeared on television. Although her hair and makeup were perfect, her face was crumpled and she hiccupped with nearly every breath. Her father patted her hand and asked if everything was all right.
“I’m just so relieved,” she said between breaths, “relieved you’re safe.”
Bettencourt smiled and continued to pat her hand.
The press secretary led the two away as Doug presented me to Secretary of State Quinones. He towered over me. Gav was tall, but Quinones beat him by several inches at least. The man smiled down at me. “So you are the angel who saved the day for our family,” he said, grasping my hand with both of his. “Thank you so much, Ms. Paras. You have done a rare and wonderful thing.”
“No,” I started to say, “anyone would have—”
“Don’t be modest,” Quinones said, with a glance in the direction his wife had gone. “I only wish Cecelia could have thanked you personally as well. But she’s very emotional right now. I know she will feel terrible later that she didn’t take the time to speak with you.”
“It’s fine, really,” I said. “I understand.”
“If there’s anything I can ever do for you,” Quinones added as he let go of my hand, “just say the word. We owe you.”
I just wanted to get back to the kitchen. “Thank you.”
Sargeant was in the kitchen when I got there. “How did it go? Did they mention us at all?”
I was about to answer when I noticed Virgil removing his apron. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“His big interview has been rescheduled,” Bucky said. “They just called.”
“What?”
“He’s taking off for the day.”
“Virgil,” I said, “this is not acceptable.”
“The First Lady wants us to be accessible to the public,” he said. “Do you want me to tell her I’m not allowed to leave the kitchen?”
“Today? Of all days? Don’t you think that your interviewers are just trying to get a scoop on the murder story? Don’t you find the timing a little convenient?”
“They’re here to talk to me. That’s it. We will be upstairs in the residence for the entirety of the interview. This has nothing to do with your murders.”
“They aren’t my murders,” I said, feeling heat swirl up my chest. “Did you clear this with Doug?”
“He knows about it.”
“Does he know you plan to do this today?”
Virgil looked at his watch. “They’ll be here in less than an hour. I have a lot to do upstairs. Don’t worry, I’ll talk with Doug.”
I raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. If the interviewer and camera crew hadn’t been cleared for today, there was no way they were getting in. Good luck with that, buddy.
Sargeant, as always, injected himself into a conversation where he didn’t belong. “You go right ahead, Virgil. This group managed without you before. I’m sure they can do so again.”
With a smug look on his face, Virgil left.
I turned to Sargeant. “Exactly when did you take over the kitchen, Peter?”
“You know as well as I do that you’d lost that argument. Whatever the First Lady wants, she gets.”
“That doesn’t mean you can just prance in here and take over.”
Sargeant waved me off. “Did anyone at the press briefing mention us?”
“I didn’t stay. But I doubt it. They’re working hard to keep our names out of it.”
“That’s a relief.”
“My guess is that plans for the secretary of state’s birthday party will be abandoned. Especially in the wake of this tragedy.”
He didn’t seem to want to leave.
“Is there something else, Peter?”
He looked around the room as though searching for an answer. “What are you preparing today?”
Our pastry chef, Marcel, had recently shared some of his renowned puff pastry with us. I was eager to put it to good use. “We’re working on a few new appetizer and entrée ideas. Why, did you want to help?”
He frowned but still didn’t leave.
One of the pages knocked on the wall of the kitchen. “Chef Paras?” she said. “There’s someone at the gate requesting to talk to you.”
“I’m not expecting anyone. Who is it?”
She consulted her cell phone. “A Mr. Milton Folgate.”
“Milton?” I turned to Peter. “Isn’t that your nephew?”
Bucky said, “What?” and Cyan looked confused.
Sputtering, Sargeant stepped closer. “Tell Milton we refuse to see him.”
The page glanced to me for approval. Smart girl. “Whoa, a minute there, Peter,” I said. “He asked for me.” I turned back to the page. “Any idea what he wants?”
“I didn’t talk with him directly.” She consulted her phone, reading the message. “But the guard at the gate says that Mr. Folgate wants to tell you that it was really nice meeting you on the street the other day. And he says he might be able to help you find the person you’re looking for.” She looked up. “Do you have any idea what that means?”
I sure did.
Sargeant started to shoo the page out. “I told him to leave me alone. Not to bother me here. You tell him—”
“Just a second,” I said. “I’ll go.”
Sargeant was apoplectic. “What?”
“Let me just get my coat,” I said to the page. “Which gate?”
“He’s waiting at the Northwest Appointment Gate. Do you want me to show him in?”
“No, keep him there. But let him know I’m on my way.”
Sargeant was practically hopping with fury. “Fine. Have it your way. But I’m going with you.”
Cyan and Bucky looked ready to attack with questions, but they’d both been through enough situations with me to know I’d fill them in later if I could. Milton’s visit was unexpected, but the message he was delivering was clear.
The minute we were outside, Sargeant lit into me. “Don’t you understand? If you show Milton any compassion, if you give him even a glimmer of hope about getting a job here, he will be relentless forever. We won’t ever be able to get rid of him.”
Although we were another day closer to spring, the wind still buffeted us on the short walk, taking my breath away. “That’s exactly why we have to see him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Didn’t you hear what the page said?”
“Of course I did. Milton wants to talk to us about getting a job—”
“He specifically mentioned meeting us on the street.”
“So what?”
“And he said he could help us find the person we’re looking for.”
“I’m not looking for anyone.” He gave me an up and down look. “Are you?”
“Peter,” I said sharply, hoping to get him to focus, “did you talk to Milton like Paul asked you to?”
“I didn’t have time.”
I’d been afraid of that. “Well you should have made the time. Don’t you understand? He knows we were at Lexington Place that day. He also knows about the double murder. Your nephew may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s trying to tell us he put two and two together and that if we don’t at least talk with him, he may spill the beans to the press about our involvement.”
Sargeant huffed. He shivered, pulling his suit coat closer.
“You should have gotten your overcoat,” I said. “I would have waited.”
“You don’t really believe Milton is threatening us, do
you?”
“I don’t know him as well as you do. What do you think?”
Sargeant didn’t answer.
Milton stood just outside the guardhouse, hopping from foot to foot, blowing air into his red, chapped hands. “Hi Milton,” I said as we a
pproached, intent on keeping things light.
The uniformed guard came out to confirm clearance. He offered to let us come inside, where it was warmer. Milton looked ready to jump at the offer, but I declined.
“Suit yourself,” the guard said and went back inside.
Sargeant grabbed his nephew’s arm and pulled him far away from the guardhouse. With the wind outside and the building tightly closed, there was no chance of being overheard, but Sargeant seemed frantic to make sure of it. “What were you thinking? Why did you come here?”
I tried to interrupt. “Peter…”
He continued to berate his nephew, who took it all with disaffected resignation, making it obvious that similar scenarios had played out their whole lives. For a minute I worried that the spit shooting out of Sargeant’s mouth would freeze into icy missiles and ping against Milton’s pudgy face. “You can’t just show up unannounced and demand to see me.”
“I came to see her.”
Sargeant looked about to launch into another unhelpful rant when I asked, “What do you want from us, Milton?”
“You know what he wants,” Sargeant said. To Milton, “It isn’t going to happen. You have no business here. Go on, before I tell the guard you threatened us.”
Unfazed, Milton directed his attention to me. “Listen, Chef Paras, I know what went down the other day at Lexington Place. I also know what the papers aren’t telling anybody. You and Petey were there.” He pointed at me. “I’ve read about how you get involved in all sorts of crazy things at the White House, so I figured it was you who found the two dead people. Am I right?”
I didn’t answer. “What do you want from me, Milton?”
“Nothing more than what’s fair,” he said. Looking sheepish, he worked his mouth. “All I want is an interview. Let the job be mine to win or lose, not Petey’s to decide. I can work in the kitchen. I’m a real good cook. I can work as a server, too. I’m good at getting orders just right. I could be a butler, even.”
Sargeant made a noise of disgust. “I’d sooner put a gorilla in a tuxedo to serve the president.”
Milton dug into his pocket and pulled up his cell phone. “A gorilla wouldn’t have the local news station on speed dial.”
“We can have you arrested for threatening us,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” he said almost apologetically. “I mean, all I’m saying is that the news media folks have a right to know you two were in the vicinity.” He pointed the phone at me. “And with your reputation—”
Sargeant jumped on that one. “This is all your fault,” he said to me. “You get involved in the White House business far more deeply than you ought. I never should have agreed to accompany you the other day. You’re trouble with a capital T.”
“Gee, thanks, Peter. Now tell me how you really feel.”
Milton shifted foot to foot. He was losing us. “How long were the two people dead?” he asked me.
I took a step back. “Listen, I think we all need to—”
“Because I think the guy who bumped us is the guy who killed them.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Remember the guy who almost knocked Petey over?” He hesitated a moment. “You got upset with me for shouting at him.”
“You think that’s the killer?” I asked. Even as I heard the skepticism in my voice, my brain zinged into high gear. Hadn’t the stranger stopped and looked back at us when Milton shouted?
“I do,” Milton said with some pride.
Sargeant threw his hands in the air. “Bah,” he said. He began to walk away.
“Even better,” Milton continued, “I think I saw him again.”
“Where?”
Sargeant had made it about fifteen feet. “Are you coming?”
I ignored him to focus on what Milton was saying. “I saw him walk by the restaurant where I work. Couple of times. I’m sure it’s him. I’m gonna follow him next time.”
“You should go to the police,” I said.
“And tell ’em what? Wouldn’t that be a fast track to getting your names in the paper?”
Sargeant had doubled back. “I don’t want my face in the paper.”
“It’s more important to follow any leads. The chances of that being our guy…” I let the thought hang.
“It is the guy,” Milton said, “I can feel it. And from the look on your face, you can, too.”
“Then go to the police.”
He shook his head. “Ain’t happening.”
“Then I will,” I said.
“In the meantime,” Milton said, “don’t forget who gave you this information. Maybe you can put in a good word for me with the chief usher.”
I knew the answer, but I asked anyway. “You sent a resume?”
Milton brightened. “I did. He should have it by now. With a good word from you—”
Sargeant looked ready to pop. I headed off any further outbursts, explaining, “Paul Vasquez is out for a while.” I couldn’t very well let on that Doug Lambert had taken over when most of the White House staff hadn’t yet been informed. Time to sell the party line. “He’s on vacation for a few weeks. He won’t be able to look at it until he gets back. And I’m not exactly sure when that will be.”
Milton’s face fell. “Do you promise to talk to him about it when he gets back?”
Sargeant pivoted. “I’m going in. With or without you.”
“I will talk with the chief usher about you at some point,” I said. “I can’t promise more than that right now.”
“Will you recommend me for the job?”
“Can’t promise. All I can do is make sure he sees your resume.”
“What if I bring you more information about the guy who bumped us?”
“Milton,” I said, repeating words that had been directed to me more times than I could count, “stay out of it.”
I signaled to the guard to show Mr. Folgate out. “I’ll be in touch,” Milton said.
The tenseness of the conversation had made me forget the cold. Now, as I returned to the White House, I felt it whip my hair around and race down my neck, making me shiver.
The trees offered little protection from the slicing wind and I ducked my head, hurrying back. Just as I passed a giant tree, someone jumped out at me.
My hands went up and I screamed. A half-second later, I was furious. “Peter, you scared me.”
He seemed surprised by my reaction. “I was waiting for you.” Hands shoved into his pockets, his nose was bright red.
“My lucky day.”
“Are you really going to tell the police what Milton told us?”
“It would be foolish to ignore a clue.” I mulled it over. The police didn’t know me and they might not understand the significance of Milton’s report. “I’ll tell the Secret Service. They’ll know what to do with it.”
That shut Sargeant up for a minute. Unfortunately, not long enough. “You’re just going to get in deeper, you know. I think we should both just forget Milton’s visit here.”
“Why are you so against him? He’s your family.”
Sargeant didn’t answer.
“Look,” I continued, “I don’t see him as White House material, either, but it wouldn’t kill you to be nicer to him.”
“He will never work in the White House.”
“What did he ever do to you?”
The look in Sargeant’s eyes was one I’d never seen before. Angry, yes, but also oddly vulnerable. “Nothing I care to discuss with you.”
CHAPTER 8
FRIDAY MORNING, VIRGIL WAS HUMMING when he returned from preparing breakfast upstairs.
“How did it go yesterday?” I asked.
“Very well.”
“No trouble getting the camera crew in?”
“None whatsoever.”
I was surprised to hear it. Yesterday had been a zoo, which meant that our Secret Service agents were ten times more likely than usual to push back. Getting interviewers and camera crews i
n on such short notice was unheard of.
“Peter Sargeant made sure they got whatever clearances they needed,” he said.
That couldn’t be right. “How? He didn’t leave the kitchen.” That had been the standing joke yesterday, that Sargeant simply would not leave. That is, until he and I had gone outside to talk with Milton right about the same time Virgil was being interviewed.
“He must have made a call, or sent an e-mail, or…I don’t know. Whatever he did, he got me what I needed. That’s what counts, right?”
None of my business. I shrugged. “I suppose.”
The phone rang and Bucky answered. “For you,” he said when he hung up. “Doug would like you upstairs right away.”
Being summoned to the usher’s office “right away” sounded ominous.
“What’s up with Paul, anyway?” Bucky asked. “It’s not like him to stay away during a White House crisis. I expected him to rush back from wherever he was as soon as the news broke.”
I held up my hands in a helpless gesture. “Maybe he can’t get away?”
“Paul not putting the White House first on his list of priorities? Nah, I think something is up.” He looked at me shrewdly. “Is there?”
Avoiding answering, I held my hands up in a helpless gesture, untied my apron, and washed my hands. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Doug looked up from his paperwork as I entered his office. I wondered if I’d ever get used to seeing him sitting behind Paul’s desk. “Good morning,” he said. “Have a seat.”
I did. “Is this about me talking to the Secret Service yesterday?” I asked. “Because I stopped by here a couple of times to let you know about it, but you weren’t in.”
I could tell I’d confused him. “Secret Service? What are you talking about?”
“Yesterday,” I said, “I alerted the Secret Service to a possible clue in the double-murder case.”
Doug perked up. “What are you talking about?” he said again.
I took a deep breath. “It’s a long shot, and maybe not even very reliable, but I promised Paul I would keep you informed. Yesterday, Peter and I…”