Eggsecutive Orders (22 page)

I smiled at her in my rearview mirror. “I think they save that honor for presidents,” I said. “Besides, this place is probably near the Minkus home. I’m sure Ruth made the final decision on where her husband would be waked.”

“Took them long enough,” Nana said with a sniff.

“They had to wait for the autopsy,” I said. My heart did that speed-beat thing it always did when I thought about how much my career hung on the medical examiner’s findings. I knew things moved a lot more slowly than they did on television, but it had already been four days.

My mom was riding shotgun and was staring out at the scenery as we drove. “You okay?” I asked.

She had been twisting the rings on her fingers. “Fine, fine.”

I waited.

“I was just thinking about your dad.”

“Still miss him?” I asked.

“Every day.”

CHAPTER 16

RUTH MINKUS HAD CHOSEN THIS FUNERAL home with care. The parking lot was expansive, and the venue stately. I offered to drop Nana off under the huge canopy-covered entrance, but she snapped good-naturedly, “What, are you saying I’m too old to walk?”

I shook my head and parked in one of the last available spots, about a half block from the front door. We walked past dozens of dark government-issue sedans and shiny, expensive imports, my pumps making lonely taps on the sidewalk. Outside, people mingled. Men and women in business suits stood around in small groups. A few of them smoked, and all of them looked up to see who was arriving. Just as quickly, they returned to their conversations, dismissing us as unimportant. I was okay with that. People didn’t often recognize me without my tunic and toque. Tonight, I was grateful for the measure of anonymity.

There had to be a hundred floral pieces in the chapel, all sadly bright and all giving off that peculiar scent that let you know you were at a funeral, even if you were blindfolded. The newspaper obituary had requested donations to charity in lieu of flowers, but apparently lots of mourners didn’t get that memo. Either that, or this was yet another place where even politics didn’t die. An impressive floral arrangement might not provide the family much solace, but it had the potential to say a lot about the generosity of the giver.

Well-dressed individuals waited in line to pay their respects to Ruth and Joel Minkus—there were at least fifty people in front of us. As we inched forward, I took the opportunity to read the cards on some of the floral sprays. Two huge red, white, and blue arrangements with gold ribbons flanked the casket. My mom raised her eyebrows, obviously impressed. “Those are probably from the White House,” I said. Then, “Hey, look at this.”

They leaned close. “It’s from his health club.” The three of us exchanged a look of amazement. “Geez, when a big shot dies, everybody sends flowers, huh?”

Over the course of the next ten minutes, we read all the other gift cards within our reach, but we hadn’t moved more than a few feet.

“Maybe we can just sign the book and leave?” I suggested.

If my mom had been hoping to see Kap tonight, she clearly was dissuaded by the press of the crowd. “Maybe that would be best.”

Nana was scanning the room, eyes sharp. “Where’s the shrine?” she asked.

We both looked at her.

“You know—the poster board with pictures of Minkus. Milestones. Birth, marriage, vacations, his kid being born and growing up.” She made a 360-degree turn, twisting, as she did, to peer around the gathered family and friends.

I pointed to a table on the room’s far left where a silver-framed computer monitor stood. “No homemade poster,” I said. “Nowadays people opt for a digital display.”

She fixed me with a skeptical look. “You mean the family doesn’t sit around and laugh and talk and cry as they make the posters and remember all the good times together?”

“Sure they do,” I said. “But now, instead of messing up the original photographs with tape or glue, the funeral home scans them and presents them as a slide show.”

“This I gotta see,” she said. And she was off.

“Don’t they have those in Chicago?” I asked Mom.

She shrugged. “Maybe the rich folks do.”

I guided her out of line and sought out the line for the guest book. “With this crowd, Ruth Minkus wouldn’t have even noticed us. I’m sorry to have pulled you and Nana out for this.”

“Don’t worry about it, honey. I’m just happy I raised a girl who does things right. I’m proud of you for coming here even though you didn’t feel like it.”

“Olivia Paras?”

I turned. A short gentleman extended his hand to me. Like all the other men here, he was wearing a suit, but unlike the other mourners, he wore a smile. “I’m very glad to make your acquaintance,” he said. “I’m Phil Cooper. This is my wife, Francine.”

I shook his hand and that of the knockout blonde woman next to him.

“I’m very sorry for all the trouble since Sunday’s dinner,” he said. “And, if I may say so without sounding crass, I truly enjoyed the meal you prepared for us.” He gave a self-conscious shrug. “I was enjoying the entire evening up until . . . well . . .”

He turned toward the casket for emphasis. He didn’t need to do that. We all knew what he meant.

“Thank you,” I said, not entirely certain that was the proper response.

Francine sidled up to her husband and tucked her hand through his arm. “It really was a wonderful meal,” she said. “It was my first time visiting the White House—you know, as a guest. Can you believe it? I’ve lived here in D.C. my whole life, but I’ve only done the normal tours. I was so excited when Phil and I got invited.” Her face was pink with animation and she smiled much more brilliantly than one should at a funeral home—no matter what the circumstances. “I had such a nice time. It’s unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” I said again, this time wondering what, exactly, she meant by “unbelievable.” Dinner at the White House or the fact that her husband’s boss had dropped dead after the meal? Nodding acknowledgment, I searched for an excuse to step away. I was near enough to the end of the guest book line, so I stepped in, hoping it would move quickly and we could get out of there.

Phil stepped a little closer to me, speaking quietly. I had to strain to hear him over the din of conversation surrounding us. “Have you heard anything more about what happened that night?”

I shook my head, thinking it was an odd question for a security agent to be asking the executive chef. “Have you?”

“Not much,” he said, glancing around. I got the impression he was making sure no one could overhear us. “What’s happening with the Egg Roll Monday? And what about your staff? Any idea when you might be cleared?”

Since when did federal agents care about the kitchen staff? “We’re still waiting for word.”

The conversation was beginning to sound like something from a bad spy movie. It got worse when Cooper gestured with his eyes. “Look who’s here.”

I glanced over to the corner, near the back, where an elderly man hunched over his cane. “Who is he?”

“You don’t recognize him?”

I looked again. “No.”

Cooper came closer, so that he and I were now facing the same direction. His wife had disengaged herself from his arm and was now talking with my mom. “That’s Howard Liss.”

Instinctively I gasped, resisting the overwhelming urge to march over and tell him off. Not good form at a wake. “What’s he doing here?”

“He likes to ‘immerse himself’ in his stories. At least that’s his claim. Personally, I see him as a vulture, circling and hoping for some new tidbit to exploit.” Cooper winked at me. “I just wanted to let you know because you seem to be on his radar lately.”

“Thanks.”

“Rumor has it he’s targeting me next.”

“Where did you hear that?”

Cooper didn’t answer. “It was very nice to meet you, Ms. Paras. I wish you the best of luck.”

He left as Nana returned.

When we finally made it to the front of the book line, I wrote my name and address and then turned away to allow the next person access. “Aren’t you going to take a holy card?” Nana asked.

“No.”

“Hmph,” she said, as she reached in to snag one for herself. “I’ll take it then.”

“I think we can sneak out now,” I said, speaking quietly. I told them both what Phil Cooper had told me. The three of us stole peeks at Howard Liss.

“He looks like a bad person,” Mom said. “I can tell these things.”

I thought he looked rather benign. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t a slim, white-haired, distinguished fellow leaning on a carved cane. His photo in the newspaper must be at least a decade old, I decided. Instead of a hard-hitting reporter who may or may not twist the facts to suit his journalistic fancy, this guy looked like a college professor. Somebody who taught economics, maybe. Or philosophy. And definitely nearing retirement.

“Let’s get out of here before he sees us,” I said.

We had just made it to the chapel doorway when we stopped short.

“Corinne!” Kap said with a bit too much pleasure for my tastes.

My mother said, “Kap!” with about the same expression.

“I’m so happy you were able to make it,” he said. Turning to me, he squinted. “How was Ruth to you tonight? Did she seem better?”

“Ah,” I said, hedging. “We didn’t get a chance to talk with Ruth one-on-one.” I gestured vaguely in the direction of the casket and the crowd of people surrounding it. It dawned on me that I hadn’t even gotten a glimpse of the deceased. “The line is so long . . .”

“We can’t have that,” he said. Taking my mother by the arm, he smiled down at me. “It’s so hard for Ruth to talk to everyone she intended to. She would be very upset if you left.”

“I don’t want to bother—”

“No bother at all.” He leaned down to speak close to my ear. “As a matter of fact, Ruth wants to ask you something.”

The skepticism must have shown on my face, because he was quick to add, “I don’t know what it is. She seems to be pushing for answers when there are none.”

“I hope there are answers soon,” I said, my impatience with being trapped at this funeral parlor with no clear means of escape showing through. “I don’t blame her a bit. As soon as they vindicate the kitchen, I’ll be able to get back to work.”

Kap’s reaction surprised me. “They haven’t allowed you back yet?”

This was in the news almost daily. I wanted to ask the man if he lived in a cave, but politeness won out. “No. Not until the medical examiner clears us.”

Howard Liss had sidled up to us and had heard most of our conversation. “Hello,” he said. “You’re Olivia Paras, aren’t you? I’m—”

“I know who you are.”

He didn’t extend his hand. Thank goodness, because I would have refused to shake it. He tilted his head with a sly smile. “I see you’ve been reading my column.”

“Yes,” I said. “And I suppose I have you to thank for all my time off.”

“That’s one way to look at it.” His eyes lasered in on mine, like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s in the first
Terminator
movie. “You haven’t gotten word that you’re allowed back in the kitchen yet?”

“No,” I said, keeping my voice light. “But if we were to be allowed back in, I’m sure you’d be the first to know.”

His mouth twitched. Like he was enjoying this.

Which meant it was time for me to leave. “If you’ll excuse us,” I began.

“And you must be Olivia’s mother,” Liss asked, ignoring me and turning to my mom. “A pleasure.”

I touched her arm. “Mom. Let’s go.”

Kap insinuated himself between them. “Why are you here, anyway?” he asked Liss.

They were about the same age. Both tall and white-haired. But where Liss had a cane, and the milky-white complexion of a man who spent his sunshine in front of a glowing computer screen, Kap was olive-complected, fit, and muscular. He looked like a poster boy for Viagra commercials.

Liss pulled himself up to full height, which was about an inch shorter than Kap’s. “I was going to ask Ms. Paras the exact same thing.” Again, the laser eyes. “I don’t understand,” he said, then a corner of his mouth curled up. “What is your connection to the deceased?” he asked. “Other than the fact that you fed him his final meal?”

Tiny Nana, with her big heart—and suddenly loud voice—thrust her holy card into Liss’s hand. “You know what this means? You are at a wake, mister. If you can’t behave properly, I think maybe you should go home.”

People around us began to take notice.

Liss smiled down at the card in his hand. He pointed to Minkus’s death date on the back of the picture of Saint George. “See this?” he asked. Without waiting for us to answer, he said, “This isn’t right. Carl Minkus wasn’t destined to die on
this
date.” He shook his head. “And if you had anything to do with it, Ms. Paras, the world needs to know that.”

My mom muttered, “You’re despicable.”

“Maybe so,” he said. “But it’s people like you who read my column.” He smiled. “And when you respond so predictably, you keep me comfortably employed.”