All the President’s Menus (20 page)

“You’re kidding me,” Bucky said the next morning when I told him my plan to record the Saardiscans. He’d seen the tiny tape recorder many times before. The silver device was a little taller and a bit narrower than a pack of playing cards. I’d received it as a gift from a good friend. Bucky, Cyan, and I had made great use of it over the years as we’d conjured up new dishes for our First Families.

Today, however, I had a whole new use in mind for my trusty tool.

“You think I’m overreacting?” I asked. “After the stunt they pulled yesterday, I have to believe these guys really do have something to hide.”

“We all have something to hide,” Bucky said. “But to answer your question, no. I don’t believe you’re overreacting. I just didn’t see
this
coming.” He pointed at the recorder, then added, “Remind me never to do anything even slightly suspicious around you. You’re tenacious.”

“So I’ve been told.” I placed the mini recorder in my breast pocket, where I usually kept a couple of pens. I moved those to the pocket of my apron so that the pens wouldn’t clatter against the recorder’s plastic casing. “What do you think?” I asked.

“Nope,” Bucky said.

“Why not?”

He pointed. “You can see the recorder’s outline bumping from inside your pocket.”

“Darn.”

“There’s no way to tell what it is, precisely,” he said, “but you always carry pens up there, and I’m assuming you don’t want anything to look out of place.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Good thing I considered that possibility.”

“You did?”

“Yep.” I handed him the recorder as I crossed the kitchen. “The smock I have at home doesn’t have a breast pocket, so I couldn’t test how it looked there.”

“What about keeping it in your pants pocket?”

“Thought of that,” I said, tapping the side of my leg. “I gave it a test last night, but the fabric of my slacks must be too thick. I could barely make out my words, and I knew what I had said.”

He turned the device over in his hands. “This is ancient equipment,” he said. “Do they even make tapes for these anymore?”

I pulled my purse out and began digging in.

“Gav offered to get me one that’s more sophisticated. He said they have models that can run all day and pick up everything.”

“You turned him down?”

I grinned as I pulled out my cell phone armband. “Voilà,” I said, holding the hot-pink Velcro strap. “I use this when I go to the gym.” Grinning wryly, I added, “Which means I had to dust it off. But to answer your question, no. He’s planning to bring one home tonight. I’ll start using that one tomorrow. But I’m impatient.”

He waited, with a skeptical look on his face, as I returned to the other side of the kitchen and laid the armband and the recorder on the counter.

“Is that going to fit?”

“This is supposed to be a universal type for all sizes of phones. I can adjust it.”

“I don’t know,” he said as I placed the recorder into the holder.

Designed to snug around the edges of a cell phone, it featured small Velcro tabs that allowed me to adjust the width with some degree of precision. The recorder, however, was too tall.

“I have a backup plan,” I said, pulling out a rubber band from my pocket. I affixed it around the recorder and the back of the holder frame. “Can you tell that I worked on this a little bit at home last night?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky said again.

I removed my smock long enough to wrap the band around the upper portion of my left arm. I tucked the short sleeve of my shirt behind the top of the device, to add stability. Gingerly, I donned my smock again, its sleeves wide enough to easily conceal the fact that I was wearing the mechanical device underneath.

“See?” I turned side to side. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s perched a little precariously.”

“So do I,” I admitted, “but I need to be able to turn it on without digging into my pants pockets, or fudging at my belt. That, I think, would be a dead giveaway.”

“Try turning it on,” he said.

I reached over with my right hand as though pretending to scratch my left arm. I felt for the small nub of a button and flicked it on.

“You really have been practicing,” Bucky said with approval.

“I’ll need to be careful not to move this arm too quickly. But I think it’s solid enough to withstand a day in the kitchen, don’t you?”

“You’re the ace detective here, not me.”

“Ha-ha.”

“By the way, is the Secret Service in on this little caper?”

I opened the oven to check on the family’s breakfast casserole. “I had to tell Tom about it, because I needed to get Stephanie’s contact information from him.”

“And he’s allowing you to do this?”

I kept one eye on the doorway, in case the Saardiscans showed up soon. “‘Allowing’ isn’t exactly the term I’d use. He can’t grant permission, but he stopped short of forbidding me from trying.”

“More power to you, then,” he said. “I swear, you’ve become a force to be reckoned with in this place.”

I had to chuckle. “Don’t tell the Secret Service that.”

“What? You think they don’t already know?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “And what about Stephanie? Is she in?”

“Yep.” I pulled the casserole out. “She’s on another assignment today—nothing to do with Saardisca—and won’t be available until late. I’m going to her house after work so that she can translate whatever I manage to catch today.” I placed the steaming dish on one of the stovetop burners. “If Gav gets me the better equipment, I’ll be able to simply upload and e-mail the recordings to her. Ah, the wonders of the Internet,” I said. Tapping my arm, I added, “For today, however, I’m limited to twentieth-century technology.”

“You don’t waste any time.”

“I already feel as though they’ve been here too long. Too many oddball happenings since they arrived. Yet there’s no way to blame any one of them. I’m hoping to find out what’s really going on.”

“And if there’s nothing?”

I shrugged. “Then I’m wrong.”

Bucky passed me the first of the family’s plates. “Which you usually aren’t.”

We finished preparing breakfast just as the butlers arrived.

“Thanks, Jackson,” I said as the head butler covered the dishes and placed them on the serving cart.

When Bucky and I were alone again, I lowered my voice. “I’ll need you to pull Cleto out of the kitchen from time to time. The rest of them know better than to drop into their native language around him.”

“You got it, boss,” he said.

Ten minutes later, our visiting chefs and Cleto arrived. “Good morning,” I said to them. To Bucky, I whispered, “Here we go.”

We spent the first hour or so going over plans for lunch and organizing ourselves for Kerry Freiberg’s visit. The menu had been set, the ingredients identified, and we now waited for the Secret Service to procure all the particulars on our list of supplies so we could get started on preparation. Some grocery items would arrive tomorrow, with the bulk of our needs coming the following day. A few last-minute items would be flown in fresh the day of the dinner itself. With the lion’s share of our tasks identified and settled, the only thing left to worry about was dessert.

I glanced at the clock. Marcel said he’d be here this morning. I hoped he’d show up soon.

“We were very sorry that the chefs were unable to meet with Kerry Freiberg during her first visit here,” I said to Cleto, “but we’re delighted to be able to entertain all of you as our guests when she returns. Are you taking Kilian’s place at dinner?”

“I hope so,” he said, bobbing his head with enthusiasm. “It is a shame the way it came about, but I would be honored to be invited to dine with our esteemed candidate. I have been wishing to meet her since her candidacy was announced.”

“I’m sure she would be pleased to meet you as well.”

“We all hope to make a favorable impression on her,” Cleto said. He didn’t see Tibor scowling behind his back.

Marcel came around the corner. “Bonjour,” he said, with a wide smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I am so happy to be returned to my favorite home away from home. Have you missed me,
mes amis
?”

I crossed the room to give him a hug, being careful not to smash his broken arm, telling him that he had, indeed, been missed. Bucky laid a gentle hand on Marcel’s back. “Good to see you, sport,” he said. “The place hasn’t been the same without you.”

When Marcel had been informed about Kilian’s death, he’d called me at home to tell me that just because the man had died, it didn’t prove his innocence. Although Marcel had agreed to return to the pastry kitchen, he warned me that he’d be watching the remaining Saardiscans’ every move.

Once we’d finished catching up with our most welcome pastry chef, conversation naturally turned to the Freiberg dinner at Blair House. Even though Nate and Hector were the two Saardiscans most likely to speak in their native tongue, today’s schedule (at least, the most recent iteration) called for Bucky to work in the pastry kitchen with the two of them this morning. I couldn’t come up with a plausible reason to impose a change on such short notice, especially since the three of them had identified specific tasks they planned to accomplish up there. Bucky would do his best to keep them speaking English, and at our earliest opportunity, he’d hand that pair off to me and pull Cleto and Tibor upstairs.

In the meantime, I’d keep tabs on Hector and Nate, and tape them if need be. Although Cleto had originally insisted that everyone keep to English while we worked together, he occasionally forgot himself and lapsed into Saardiscan to address his men. Every time he did so, he made a big display of apologizing to me and to Bucky, assuring us it wouldn’t happen again.

With Nate and Hector out of the room, I handed the Blair House notes to Marcel and told him I’d be right back. I scurried into the refrigeration area, where I double-checked the stability and positioning of the recorder one final time, then turned it on. I returned to find Cleto and Tibor deep in discussion—speaking in Saardiscan. My excitement level skyrocketed.

Marcel, for his part, kept busy scanning the documents I’d provided, using the fingers of his uninjured hand to flip pages as he diligently went over details. Now and then he’d pick up a pen and scribble a note, having to lean awkwardly on the sheets as he did so, in order to write one-handed. With any luck his tasks would keep him quiet for as long as Cleto and Tibor talked.

The tension between the two men was palpable. Tibor’s scowl was as pronounced as it ever was; his back was rigid and straight, while Cleto regarded the angry chef with what appeared to be amused disdain.

I held my breath as their quiet conversation grew more animated, but they paid me little attention. Less than five minutes later, both men fell silent. Tibor flexed his jaw. Cleto arched a brow.

“I gather from these notes that I have a magnificent dessert to create and mere days in which to do it,” Marcel said.

Perfect timing.
“Are you up for the challenge?”

He tapped his temple with the fingertips of his free hand. “Good thing I continued to dream up ideas while I convalesced.” Using that same hand, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a stash of papers, which had been folded into quarters. “I have a wonderful plan for a centerpiece of orange poppies.”

“Poppies are the flower of the southern province,” Cleto said. “And Kerry Freiberg is from that province. He turned to make eye contact with me. “Is he saying that the dessert will resemble an orange poppy? Is that possible?”

“He is, indeed.” I couldn’t have asked for a better opening. “Marcel, I think Cleto is overdue for a visit to your pastry kitchen. He hasn’t had a chance to see all your fabulous creations.”

“Of course.” Marcel’s eyes lit up. “I will need to begin experimenting to achieve my desired results. And the sooner I am able to start, the more likely success will be.” Marcel gestured for Cleto to join him. “Come, I will show you some of my magnificent artistry. We will tell Bucky and the other men that they are to report back down here.”

When Marcel and Cleto were gone, I slyly shut off the recorder. I waited for a while, then decided to engage my companion in conversation.

“Now that we’re getting closer to the dinner for Kerry Freiberg,” I began, “I was wondering if you were beginning to look forward to the event.”

He rolled his eyes. It seemed that no matter what country people hailed from, emotional reactions transcended language barriers. “Why is it important to you to know this?” he asked.

I wanted to ask Tibor if he was always this intractable, or if there was something about me that brought out this special side of him. I was ready to pose that very question, in fact, when Nate and Hector returned. Swallowing my snippy remark, I put forth my best upbeat attitude. “I know from personal experience that as an event gets closer, my enthusiasm level ramps up.”

“Ramps up?” Tibor asked.

“Becomes stronger,” I said, aware that Nate and Hector were watching, clearly curious about what we’d been discussing. Addressing them, I said, “I was asking Tibor about the upcoming dinner with Kerry Freiberg.”

Tibor shook his head with such sustained vehemence that I got the impression he was more concerned with convincing his colleagues that he hadn’t been telling stories out of school than in addressing the question. “I have said this before: We should remain in the kitchen,” he said. “It is not right that we dine at the same table as one of our candidates. We do not belong there.”