Affairs of Steak

by Julie Hyzy

  “The media often blows stories out of proportion.”

  “Maybe so,” he said. “We’ve certainly had issues with the media running with stories that are only half-true. I think we all know, however, that you’ve proven yourself to be an asset to the First Family. It seems you’re an asset to Cabinet members as well.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say…”

  Nagy reached for something in his breast pocket. “The secretary didn’t know what would be a proper gift for a chef who also sleuths, but he wanted to give you a remembrance of your good deed.”

  Ethan drew out a long, narrow box. A bracelet? I hoped not. That would be too personal, too weird.

  When Ethan opened the brown leather case, I breathed a sigh of relief. A silver pen. “It’s lovely,” I said as he placed it into my hand.

  “It’s engraved.”

  I twisted the pen to see the words inscribed there. “Olivia Paras, White House Executive Chef.” No mention whatsoever of the secretary of state, his father-in-law, the purported rescue, or my amateur sleuth tendencies.

  “Thank you.”

  Ethan seemed to be studying my reaction. “I…that is, Secretary Quinones…thought it best to make a gift you might actually use. One that we hope will remind you of his gratitude.”

  That reminded me. “Did you ever find out how Mr. Bettencourt disappeared? I mean, what actually happened that day?”

  Ethan shook his head. “It’s still being investigated, and unfortunately, we can’t share what little we’ve heard. I can tell you that Mrs. Quinones is blaming herself. She is inconsolable, recognizing the danger and how lucky she is that her father was returned safe and sound.” He glanced at the pen in my hand. “Which is why she wanted to do this for you.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” I said, smiling up at him. Not knowing what else to say, I added, “I love it.”

  Cyan had sidled up next to me. “What a perfect gift, Ollie. You’re always digging for a pen to scribble notes. Now you have your own. One that nobody’s going to borrow.”

  Ethan gave me a quizzical look. “Ollie? Is that a nickname?”

  “That’s what everyone calls me.”

  “Ollie,” he repeated. “I like that.”

  Cyan nudged me. Like I couldn’t read her mind.

  “Thank you very much,” I said in an effort to end the conversation and get back to work. “I’m very touched. I will be sure to send Secretary Quinones and his wife a thank-you note.”

  “There’s no need for you to thank them,” Ethan said, “but if you insist…”

  “I do.”

  “You can send it care of the secretary’s office.” He pulled out a business card. “That’s my card, and my phone number. The address is the secretary of state’s office.” Pointing, he added, “That’s my personal cell phone number, too. In case you have any questions, or anything.”

  Another nudge from Cyan.

  “Thanks,” I said again. “If I have any questions, I’ll be sure to contact you.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He smiled again, shook my hand again. Said how nice it was to meet all of us, and was finally gone.

  “Oo-ooh,” Cyan sing-songed the moment he left, “Ethan likes Ollie.”

  “He does not,” I said.

  Bucky scratched his head. “He was certainly flirting with you. Of course, the last thing you need right now is another ‘connected’ boyfriend.”

  “Yeah.” I returned the pen to its box and put it in the drawer by the kitchen’s computer.

  “You’re not going to just tuck it away, are you?” Cyan asked.

  “I’m afraid it will get all sticky and gloppy if I use it. This isn’t exactly a tidy environment, you know.”

  “Take it home, then,” she said. “Just think how cool it is to have something like that. Kind of like a trophy. You should have quite a collection by now, except I bet you didn’t save a single thing from any of your other adventures.”

  I thought about that. I had managed to amass a few precious items over the years: a copy of a competitor’s video that helped me win the job of executive chef, a fake bomb that Gav had used to instruct me on recognizing such devices, one of the commemorative wooden eggs handed out at the Campbells’ last Easter Egg Roll, and a handmade thank-you note from the Hydens’ son, Joshua. “Good idea, Cyan,” I said, “but maybe instead of hiding this one away, I’ll actually use it. After all, this wasn’t really all that much of an adventure. I didn’t really face any danger this time.”

  “Well then, maybe this one is a lucky charm.”

  CHAPTER 14

  VIRGIL WAS IN AN UNCHARACTERISTICALLY chipper mood when he returned the next morning. Because the president was already in the West Wing, Virgil was using our kitchen to prepare breakfast instead of doing so upstairs. What was most unusual was the fact that as he worked he whistled. The noise was shrill, the tune unrecognizable. Too bad it was Cyan’s day off. She’d be surprised to see the chef in such good spirits, especially after last night’s confrontation. A happy demeanor from him was a rare occurrence in this kitchen. I wasn’t about to do anything to spoil it.

  Bucky apparently held no such compunction. He glared at him from across the room. “What is that ridiculous noise?”

  “Don’t you recognize it?” Virgil asked with affected innocence. “It’s ‘Leavin’ on a Jet Plane.’ ”

  “Sounds more like the Howdy Doody theme.”

  “The what?”

  Bucky turned his back. “Never mind.”

  “Want to know why that song is in my head?”

  “No.”

  Leave it to Bucky to deliver total honesty.

  “Why, Virgil?” I asked.

  Bucky twisted around to glare at me.

  I glared back. Taking the high road never hurt anybody. Did it?

  “I am leaving on a jet plane. This afternoon.” Virgil wiggled one hand. “Well, not exactly a plane. I’ll be on a helicopter.”

  “Today?” I asked. “You haven’t cleared any time off with me.”

  A butler arrived to accept the freshly plated breakfast. “Thank you, my good man,” Virgil said to him as he returned to the countertop to clear his work area. “That’s the beauty of this. I’m not taking any personal time. I’m off to Camp David to cook for Mrs. Hyden and the kids.” He tossed a drippy whisk into the sink, and spun to face us. “Now that I’m finished with breakfast, I’m out of here. Have to get home and pack a bag, you know.”

  Anger bubbled up. “Exactly when was this decided?”

  “Doug and I had a little powwow,” he said as though that explained everything. “I think I’m going to like him better than I did Paul.”

  I was close enough to Bucky to hear him mutter, “You would.”

  Untying his apron, Virgil graced us both with a beaming gloat. “I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

  Bucky waited until he was gone. “He has to be blackmailing Mrs. Hyden. How else do you explain her bringing him on?”

  “I just think our newest chef is adept at putting on the right face for the right people. Unfortunately for us, he’s going to be alone with her and the kids for as long as this murder investigation continues.”

  “They don’t even have any suspects, do they?” he asked.

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “I wish they’d get moving on that. The sooner the better.”

  “You and me both.” I turned to our computer. “Looks like we’re off the hook for lunch. The president will be in meetings all day and the Navy Mess is handling it.”

  “Leaves us more time to work on the birthday party planning.”

  “So let’s get to it.”

  Bent over the countertop, where we’d strewn far more papers than we needed, Bucky and I were deep in discussion as to whether we should serve a version of beef Wellington when Peter Everett Sargeant popped in. “Ms. Paras,” he said, “do you have a moment?” I looked up to see him gesture. “I’ll be out in
the hall.”

  Bucky stared after him. “Did he actually say ‘Ms. Paras, do you have a moment?’ When did Sargeant get so polite?”

  I straightened and stretched. “He wants that favor, remember?”

  “You didn’t try to fix things for him, did you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Ollie, don’t. Whatever trouble he’s gotten himself into, he probably deserves it. Would he lift a finger to help you if you asked?”

  “You may be right.”

  “I am right.” With a stern look, he added, “Don’t mess up this chance. If he gets himself into deep enough trouble, we might be rid of him for good.”

  “Wishful thinking, Buckster.”

  “Don’t blow it.”

  Sargeant was pacing the hall when I got out there. “Have you talked with that calligrapher Lynn yet?” he asked.

  “Peter, we had a dinner to deal with last night and it’s not even lunchtime. Plus, it’s Sunday. Chances are she doesn’t even work today.”

  It was as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. This was not the sensitivity director I knew and despised. His eyes were bloodshot, his breast pocket handkerchief droopy. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Everything. I just wish I could put this issue to bed. But that isn’t why I wanted to talk with you.”

  That was a surprise. “What do you need?”

  “I spoke with Milton. I think he was more than a little embarrassed. It took some coaxing, but he did admit to hanging around your apartment two nights ago.”

  “He did?”

  “My lowlife nephew admitted to creeping around your apartment. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Not as much as it would if that guy who followed me on the subway was shadowing me. Milton is harmless, isn’t he?”

  Sargeant’s lips were set in a thin line. He breathed deeply through his nose. “To you, yes.”

  “What did he do to you to make you hate him so much?”

  My question clearly took him aback. “I don’t hate him.”

  “You give a mighty fine impression of it.”

  Whatever he might have been willing to say disappeared as his face closed up. “Will you talk to this Lynn person?” he asked.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  His mouth twisted. “Well, that’s something, at least.”

  Back in the kitchen, Bucky pointed upward. “Doug wants to see you the minute you’re back.”

  “What now?”

  Bucky shook his head “It’s always something.”

  Doug was on the phone when I knocked at the jamb of his open door. Mouthing, “Just a minute,” he indicated I should take a seat. “Count me in. I haven’t gone out with you guys in a while,” he said into the phone. “Thanks, Wyatt. Talk to you later.”

  When he hung up, I asked, “Wyatt Becker?”

  Doug didn’t seem to mind my nosiness. “Yeah. He’s getting a group together to go camping. We used to go every few months. Now we’re lucky if we make it once a year.”

  “I didn’t know you and Wyatt were friends on the outside.”

  “Hard to make friends anywhere else when we spend so much time here.”

  “True enough. You wanted to see me?”

  He pulled out a pad of scribbled notes. “It’s about Virgil.”

  “Is he really going to Camp David?”

  “I thought it best.”

  “Why?” I asked. “That’s just avoiding the problem. We need to work this out.”

  “Not until both of you cool down. You can’t constantly harass the new guy, Ollie.”

  “Me? If anyone is harassing people, it’s Virgil. He’s wild, unpredictable, and downright mean to our kitchen assistants. He doesn’t need time to regroup. What he needs is to be taught manners. He’s not going to learn that up at Camp David.”

  “It’s for the best.”

  “Just the opposite.”

  Doug stared at me. “Paul didn’t tell me you were this argumentative.”

  “Paul understood people. He knew how to facilitate cooperation. You could have learned a lot from him.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

  I had clearly overstepped my boundaries. Quieting the fury roiling in my gut, I stared back. “Paul let me run the kitchen the way I knew best. I came to him with problems if there were any. Virgil needs to respect the chain of command. That’s how we’ve always functioned around here because that’s the way it works best. Paul would have told Virgil to try to work things out with me first. If that didn’t resolve the issue, Paul would have set up a meeting with the three of us to talk things out.”

  Something behind Doug’s eyes shifted. I recognized it. He knew I was right. The question was, would he admit it so we could move forward, or would he dig in his heels and refuse to back down?

  “I’m not going to tell him he can’t go,” he said finally.

  “I think that’s a mistake.”

  Doug’s eyes went flat. “Thank you for stopping by, Ollie.”

  My hands worked themselves into fists as I made my way back to the kitchen. Bucky looked up as I walked in, and took a step back. “Whoa. What happened?”

  I didn’t often lose my temper. At the moment, I wasn’t out of control, but I was having a hard time keeping a handle on my emotions. “Can’t we ever catch a break around here?”

  Bucky didn’t say a word.

  “Our job is to work as a team to prepare all the White House meals, right?”

  He nodded, looking afraid.

  “So then why, I ask, do we need a chef dedicated to handling the First Family’s daily meals? On his own? That is detrimental to the team spirit, if you ask me. Of course,” I grumbled, “no one’s asking me. But fine. I could have dealt with Virgil if Doug had stayed out of this mess. But no.” I shook a finger. “Paul wouldn’t have interfered.”

  Bucky still didn’t interrupt.

  I took a breath. “Virgil’s going up to Camp David, with Doug’s blessing. How does that look? Like we both said—you know that Virgil has the First Lady’s ear.”

  “You’ve got some capital with her, too, you know. Especially after Virgil bailed when Josh was in danger.”

  “Yeah.” Bucky was right about that, but I didn’t want to stop. I needed to keep up my tirade. I needed to vent.

  “Doug’s just new in the job,” he said. “He’s bound to make mistakes.”

  “Are you trying to make me less angry?”

  Bucky smiled. “Is it working?”

  “No,” I said. “Yes.”

  “We’ll get through this, Ollie. We always do.”

  “Yeah.” I wasn’t convinced.

  “At the risk of sending you into another downward spiral—what did Sargeant want?”

  “Actually, Sargeant brought good news.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “I told you about his nephew, Milton. It seems as though he’s been loitering around my apartment the past couple days.”

  “And that’s good news?”

  “Better him than whoever killed Cawley and Woodruff.”

  Bucky grimaced. “Good point.”

  “That reminds me,” I said, picking up the phone. “I need to see if the Secret Service is willing to call off the guard.”

  I left a message for Tom to call me at his earliest convenience. I didn’t want to be a bother, but I also didn’t want to have to deal with the Secret Service watching my every coming and going.

  Bucky and I worked side by side. As cranky as Bucky could be, he was silent most of the time and I preferred a calm, quiet kitchen over one with a raging lunatic chef ordering everyone around. As soon as Virgil got back, he and I were going to have a chat. Before then, I just needed to figure out exactly what I wanted to say and the optimal way to word it.

  After about an hour of mulling and after multiple rehashings of my conversation with Doug, I asked Bucky, “Do you know Wyatt Becker, the social aide?”

&
nbsp; He shook his head. “Should I?”

  “He’s been here enough. You’ve probably seen him.”

  We worked a little longer.

  “Was there a reason you wanted to know?” Bucky asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, half surprised by the question. “I just…”

  He waited.

  “You’ll keep this confidential?”

  Bucky cocked one eyebrow, as if to say, “Don’t I always?”

  “Sargeant and I have been working with Wyatt Becker.”

  “From the look on your face, I take it you don’t much care for the guy.”

  “That obvious, huh?” I asked. “I met him once, and my impression is that he’s the worst kind of wimp.”

  “There are levels of wimp?”

  “Wimps can be pleasant enough, given the right circumstances. But this one is totally stuck on himself.”

  Bucky nodded. “Okay, got it. What does he have to do with you?”

  “He’s been assigned to help me and Sargeant work on this event. But I can’t stand the guy.”

  “You?” Bucky said, bringing his hands to his chest, “Be still my heart. Except for Sargeant and Virgil, I thought you liked everybody.”

  Gracing him with a mock withering glare, I went on, “There’s something so smug about this guy. He keeps telling us about how he saved the day here, or prevented calamity there. But all he does is sneak around, promise what he can’t deliver, then hide out of sight until the storm passes.”

  “Maybe he’s been taking lessons from Sargeant.”

  I laughed. “Good one. Big difference, though. At least with Sargeant you know exactly where you stand. He has no compunction letting me know he can’t tolerate me. I’m able to deal with that. It’s real. It’s tangible. This may sound weird, but with Sargeant there’s no pressure. Nothing I do for him will ever change his opinion of me, so I don’t worry about it.”

  “Sounds like you’re going soft on him.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “Don’t let the wimps and bullies get to you,” he said. “I’ve been around this place a long time. I’ve seen people come and go. Sure, there are exceptions, but for the most part, those of us who put our heads down and do our jobs well are recognized. Those that don’t are found out soon enough.”