Affairs of Steak (19 page)

DINNER WAS SERVED AND ENJOYED. EMPTY plates were returned to the kitchen for us to analyze. We made our notes, cleaned up, then sent Samantha home with our thanks for her help and a promise that we’d call her again.

Then came my favorite time: Bucky, Cyan, and I basked in the glow of a job well done. Bucky gave the countertop a final blast with cleaning solution, then wiped until it sparkled. “You realize you got lucky,” he said.

Cyan, transcribing our notes into a computer document, perked up. “You mean because just about everyone tonight joined the clean-your-plate club? Luck has nothing to do with that. It’s our incredible talent that made this happen. If these weren’t fancy schmancy White House people, I’d have guessed they all licked their plates clean.”

I laughed. It felt great to have created a meal that had been so universally enjoyed. Except for one diner’s plate that came back with the asparagus virtually untouched, the
food had disappeared. To us, that indicated an unqualified success.

“That’s not what I meant,” Bucky said. “You’re lucky you reamed out the First Lady’s pet chef while she was out of town. He can’t go crying to her tonight. He’s going to have to wait until she gets back.”

“And by then he’ll probably have lost his steam,” I said, “right?”

“Right.”

“Just like Cyan said a minute ago: Luck had nothing to do with it.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “You planned it that way?”

“I didn’t plan to reprimand him tonight, if that’s what you mean, but I suspected the pressure would get to him. It always does. And I was completely aware that the First Lady was out of his reach.” I smiled. “You heard of picking your battles? Well, tonight I chose wisely.”

Bucky grinned. “There’s hope for you yet.”

One of the White House pages showed up in the doorway. “Chef Paras?” she said.

I looked at Bucky and Cyan. “I hope I didn’t speak too soon.”

“The secretary of state would like to speak with you upstairs.”

My hand flew to my forehead. I’d totally forgotten about Secretary Quinones’s plan to give me a gift for rescuing his father-in-law. “Do you need me up there right now?”

“What’s going on, Ollie?” Cyan asked.

“It’s nothing. I should be back in a minute,” I said. Quickly washing my hands and drying them, I untied my apron and brushed crumbs off my smock. “Do you think I need to change it?” I asked.

Cyan squinted. “For meeting with the secretary of state? With the president there? With a bunch of other really important people around you? With that splotch of grease across your chest? Yeah, I think maybe you should change.”

I held a finger up to the page, who looked terrified to be making a top official wait. “I’ll just be a second.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand. You work in a kitchen, after all—”

By the time she got the sentence out, I was through the door with a new smock in my hand. Less than a minute later I had donned fresh clothing and was making my way back to the kitchen. “See,” I said, “that didn’t take—”

A stranger stood in the center of our kitchen. “Ms. Paras?” he asked. Wearing a charcoal suit that contrasted his fair skin and hyper-blond hair, he was about my age and very tall. I didn’t recognize him. Astoundingly handsome, with expressive blue eyes and a tentative smile, he reached out to grasp my hand. Thank goodness he couldn’t see Cyan’s thumbs-up of approval from behind.

“My name is Ethan Nagy. I’m assistant to Secretary of State Quinones.”

I was sure I must have seen this man on TV at some point, but he didn’t look at all familiar. That wasn’t unusual. We didn’t always get to know all the assistants of all the cabinet members.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Nagy.”

“Ethan, please. Secretary Quinones would have liked to have come down here himself…”

“I’m sure he has much more important things to do.”

A wider smile this time. “Thank you for your understanding. Secretary Quinones wishes to express his profound gratitude for your help in rescuing his wife’s father.”

“He already thanked me once,” I said. “Really, it was just luck that I happened to be there.”

Ethan turned his head a little bit. “I don’t think luck had anything to do with it,” he said, echoing the words we’d said in this kitchen just moments before. “From what I understand, you have a history of getting involved in unusual circumstances.”

“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.”

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.”