Eggsecutive Orders (25 page)

Shock registered in his eyes and he looked from side to side, like a spy from a 1940s movie. “Not so loud—”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I said. “And why are you bothering me with this anyway? I don’t have time to listen to your crazy conspiracies. If you believe you have some burning scoop, why not publish it in your column? Why accost me on my way to work?”

By now the entire train was paying attention.

He whispered, “Because I think you can get me information on Phil Cooper and his anti-American activities.” His teeth were clenched, his body was rigid, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. “From your Secret Service boyfriend.”

How did he know about Tom? Speechless, my mouth moved, but nothing came out.

He took the opportunity to lean in again. “You want me to go public with your romantic dalliances? I’m sure that headline will sit very well with MacKenzie’s boss.”

The car’s doors opened. “Climb into that little hole of yours and dream up more of your nasty lies,” I said. “It’s what you’re good at.”

I stepped out and didn’t look back.

CHAPTER 18

MY ANGER AT LISS DIDN’T DISSOLVE, BUT MY mood lightened the moment I stepped into the White House kitchen. It was clean. One of our crews had evidently put everything back in its place after the investigators finished. And the smell was exactly right. Dash of yeast, a sprinkle of coffee, and hint of cleaning solution. Although the scents were faint—we’d been banished for four days—they were strong enough to make my heart race with possibility. I closed my eyes for just a moment to breathe it in. “Oh,” I said quietly. “It’s good to be home.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

At Cyan’s voice, my eyes opened. “As much as I’ve been enjoying my family, I really missed coming to work.”

She tied an apron around her waist and lifted her chin to say hello as Bucky entered the room. “I have so many friends who complain about going to work,” she said. “Some of them really hate their jobs. I almost feel guilty because I love this place so much.”

“We’re blessed,” I said.

“Yeah, but for how long?” Bucky wondered.

Cyan and I had the same reaction to Bucky’s question. We both stared at him with puzzled expressions.

“This isn’t over,” he said. “I heard what that medical examiner said this morning.”

“I didn’t know he was on TV today.”

Bucky’s downturned mouth let me know that whatever Dr. Michael Isham had had to say wasn’t particularly good news. “Yeah. After Paul called, I flipped on the news. The medical examiner’s office isn’t clearing us of anything yet. He said that results are still pending.”

“Then why are we here?”

He shrugged with exaggerated motion. “They can’t have the Easter Egg Roll without us, I guess. They can trust us to hard-boil a few thousand eggs for the kids to play with. But I wager they won’t allow us to work on the food for the event.” He held up a finger in emphasis. “I
guarantee
they’ll come up with a reason why we won’t be serving food on Monday.”

“We always serve food at the event. That’s part of the draw,” I said. “I’m sure now that we’re here, everything will start getting back to normal.”

Bucky shook his head, scowling. As he turned away, Cyan’s expression asked me where the pleasant fellow from yesterday had gone.

Paul greeted us from the doorway. “Welcome back.”

We spent the next few minutes exchanging greetings and comments about being glad to be at work again. I mentioned to Paul the need for the kitchen to bring on a couple of SBA chefs and expressed my preference to have Rafe, and our recent recruit, Agda, as part of the team. With our workload, we would need a few more temporary chefs, too.

“Ah,” he said. “Other than the three of you, and Marcel and his staff, we’re not bringing ‘unknowns’ into the kitchen until the entire Minkus investigation is complete.”

My mouth opened in disbelief. While we could handle the day-to-day meals with ease, we could not—by any stretch of the imagination—handle Monday’s anticipated crowd by ourselves. “How are we going to feed all the partygoers at the Egg Roll?” I asked. “Rafe and Agda have worked here before. They’re not exactly unknown. And even with them we’ll be severely shorthanded.”

Paul waved away my concerns. “I understand. Let me explain. There has been a change in plans.”

Bucky gave me a look that said “I told you so.”

Paul took a deep breath. “After much discussion, the president and First Lady have decided that it would be in the best interests of all if we limited Monday’s events. We will hold the Egg Roll as scheduled, but no White House party afterward.”

If a person could look smug and unhappy at the same time, it was Bucky.

“But . . .” I didn’t know what else to say. “Why?”

“Coming on the heels of Carl Minkus’s death, the aspect of a formal party that evening might be construed as unseemly. In bad taste. But no one would disagree with keeping the Egg Roll for the benefit of the children.”

Bucky’s warning made me believe there was more to it than keeping up appearances. For his part, Bucky had turned his back while Cyan and I waited for Paul to finish.

“You have to understand that the president and First Lady believe in all of you. They wanted you back here as quickly as possible. This”—he held his hands aloft—“is a testament to their belief. Don’t underestimate it.”

We nodded, but were silent. Paul patted me on the shoulder on his way out. “Things will start to get better soon. I’m sure of it.”

He left, and we set to work on dinner, eventually settling back into our comfortable rhythms. When I signed onto the kitchen computer, I found a note from the First Lady:

I shared the note with Cyan and Bucky who, respectively, were cheered and unfazed. Tonight’s dinner, capitalizing on the fresh veggies from my garden on the third floor, boasted a little Italian flair. We were serving a spring greens salad, bruschetta, and pasta primavera with chicken, asparagus, cherry tomatoes, and baby squash. Marcel, I knew, was planning the big finish of warm Brie with walnuts and maple syrup, garnished with fresh berries.

After we got the bruschetta topping started, I turned to Bucky. “I haven’t spoken with the Secret Service yet about picking up the eggs.”

He raised his head in acknowledgment but didn’t respond.

“I’ll talk to them as soon as we’re settled here. But I’m sure they’re going to want specifics. Do you have a good time I can ask them to be there? Will Brandy be home?”

Bucky’s head snapped up. He made an imperative, unintelligible noise—halfway between a gasp and a
“Shh!”

“What?” I asked, not understanding.

He gestured the two of us closer, his eyes wide with anger. “Do
not
say another word,” he said, his voice menacing. He looked about the kitchen but there was no one else around. Keeping to a whisper, he said, “You will not refer to her in any way that might bring notice to our . . . our . . .”

“Relationship?” I prompted.

His glare darkened. “It does not exist.”

“Uh . . .” Cyan ran her fingers over her lips. “What?”

Again the unintelligible noise. “The relationship you refer to is private. It does not exist”—he jammed a finger onto the countertop—“here. You will not refer to it, or to her, in that regard. We refuse to make ourselves a spectacle.”

Perhaps reading the expressions on our faces, he quickly added, “We want to keep things private.”

“Sure,” I said, but his words hit me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. As I went back to preparations—cleaning the asparagus and baby greens—Liss’s not-so-subtle threat to make my relationship with Tom public sent a shooting pain of fear up the back of my throat.

“What’s wrong, Ollie?” Cyan asked. “You’re pale.”

To tell the truth, I felt pale. A sadness I couldn’t reach sickened me. And I knew this queasy dread wouldn’t go away until I could make things right. The question was, how? I took a deep breath. “I need some air,” I said. “Give me a minute.”

Even as I strode out of the kitchen, I was pulling my cell phone out of my pocket. I made my way outside into one of the courts that flanked the North Portico. “Tom,” I said when he answered.

“What’s wrong?”

The fact that he could tell so quickly that something was wrong was not lost on me. He and I had gotten to that point where we could often anticipate what the other would say. Comfort. We’d had that. For a while, at least.

I wanted to talk. But I knew this wasn’t a conversation for the phone. “Something’s come up.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes.” Gosh, I was not handling this very well. “Everyone is fine. But Liss—Howard Liss.”

“You’re back in the White House, aren’t you? I heard you got the all-clear today. I wanted to call, but I’m in training today.”

“Oh, you’re busy?”

“We’re on a break right now. Your timing is phenomenal.”

“At least something is.”

“Talk to me, but make it quick. We’re being called back in for the next session.”

There was no way to put this in a thirty-second conversation. “Just do me a favor and call me when you get out, okay? Call me first before you do anything. Will you do that?”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” I cringed. That was a lie. “It will keep until you call me.” I hoped that was the truth.

“Ollie, you’re making me nervous.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you later. But it’ll be okay.” I felt a swift stab in my heart. “I have it all figured out.”

He gave a short laugh. “I don’t know if that’s good news or bad news. But I do have to go. I’ll call you later.”

“As soon as you get out, right?”

“That very moment.”

I rolled my shoulders but didn’t feel any better. That queasy sensation was still there. I stared up at the sky from between the court’s side walls. Overcast today. I shivered. It was cold outside, but I just noticed it now. My sorrowful mood did not have its genesis in Liss’s threat. Liss had only exacerbated an awareness that was already there. I knew what I needed to do. But I wondered if I had the strength to do it.

The sky above held no answers, so I made my way inside to the kitchen’s warmth, where life always felt safest.

 

 

Marguerite Schumacher, the White House social secretary, met me in the hallway. “I was just coming to talk with you.” Pert and dark, she had limitless energy, and a tenacity that I admired. “Have you heard about the plans?”

I told her I had. “I’m just disappointed that they’re cancelling the post-party. Everyone always looks forward to that.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I have to tell you, at first I thought canceling the party portion was a bad idea. But after talking with Mrs. Campbell, I understand where she’s coming from.”

“Having a party just a week after Minkus’s death wouldn’t look good?”

“That,” Marguerite agreed, “and . . .”

“What else? What are they not telling us?”

She placed a finger on her lips. “Don’t share this with anyone else.”

I felt my heart skip a beat. “What is it?”

For the third time today, the person I was talking with looked both directions before speaking. Anyone else might have started to develop a complex. But I understood. That’s part of the world I chose to live in.

Something else clicked in that moment. That realization that I was always in the middle of things. That’s who I
was
.

“You remember our last big holiday?” Marguerite asked.

“How could I forget?” The days leading up to the official White House holiday open house had been eventful, to say the least.

“Mrs. Campbell doesn’t want to take any chances this time. She wants the children to have their event, but, in her words, doesn’t want ‘to tempt fate’ by entertaining all the adults later that evening.”

“ ‘Tempt fate,’ ” I repeated.

Marguerite nodded. “At least until the Minkus investigation is completed.”

“So she believes Minkus
was
murdered?”

“I really can’t say.”

I watched her reaction. “You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?”

She gave a Mona Lisa smile. “I really can’t say.” Then, deflecting my question, she brought me up to date on the expected guests, and explained that there would be additional security—more than usual—on the grounds that day.

“But they never considered canceling the entire event?”

Marguerite gave me a weary look. “You’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t. Cancelling the kids’ events would be such a disappointment. There are families who look forward to this all year. Some come from across the country just for the chance to participate. Mrs. Campbell doesn’t want to let them down.”