Foreign Éclairs

Praise for
the
New York Times
Bestselling White House Chef Mysteries

“Pulse-pounding action, an appealing heroine, and the inner workings of the White House kitchen combine for a stellar adventure.”

—Carolyn Hart,
New York Times
bestselling author

“[A] unique setting, strong characters, sharp conflict, and snappy plotting . . . Hyzy’s research into the backstage kitchen secrets of the White House gives this series a special savor that will make you hungry for more.”

—Susan Wittig Albert,
New York Times
bestselling author

“From terrorists to truffles . . . [A] sumptuous, breathtaking thriller.”

—Nancy Fairbanks, bestselling author of
Turkey Flambé

“With her accustomed expertise in matters political and culinary, Hyzy again creates a dandy and timely story that focuses on an intrepid heroine who must depend on her instincts and her wits to stop a conspiracy. Like all of Hyzy’s work,
All the President’s Menus
finds a perfect consistency that’s neither half-baked nor overdone.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“A compulsively readable whodunit full of juicy behind-the-Oval Office details, flavorful characters, and a satisfying side dish of red herrings.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“[A] fun-filled, fast-paced, killer read . . . An appealing heroine . . . A foodie will love this gastronomic adventure.”

—Fresh Fiction

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Julie Hyzy

White House Chef Mysteries

STATE OF THE ONION

HAIL TO THE CHEF

EGGSECUTIVE ORDERS

BUFFALO WEST WING

AFFAIRS OF STEAK

FONDUING FATHERS

HOME OF THE BRAISED

ALL THE PRESIDENT’S MENUS

FOREIGN ÉCLAIRS

Manor House Mysteries

GRACE UNDER PRESSURE

GRACE INTERRUPTED

GRACE AMONG THIEVES

GRACE TAKES OFF

GRACE AGAINST THE CLOCK

GRACE CRIES UNCLE

Anthologies

INAUGURAL PARADE

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

FOREIGN ÉCLAIRS

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Tekno Books LLC

Copyright © 2016 by Tekno Books LLC.

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.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-59271-7

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2016

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

In memory of Marty Greenberg

Ollie and I have been close friends for almost ten years. I’m lucky she came into my life and I hope she believes the same of me. Writing her stories has been a joy and a delight. I like to think we both learned a lot along the way.

Marty Greenberg was the genius behind the concept and I wish he were still here today to see where Ollie is now. I will be forever grateful to him for offering me the opportunity to write the White House Chef Mysteries.

I am equally grateful to my wonderful editor, Natalee Rosenstein at Berkley Prime Crime, for taking a chance on me. She’s just the best and I’m incredibly fortunate to have been able to work with her for so long. Many thanks to Natalee, Michelle Vega, and the team at Berkley Prime Crime—Robin Barletta, Stacy Edwards, and Erica Horisk—awesome supporters of this series, some from the very beginning.

Many thanks as well to Larry Segriff at Tekno Books, who keeps everything running smoothly and is never too busy to answer e-mails.

Hugs and kisses to my family: Curt, Robyn, Sara, and Biz. Love you all.

Bucky scoured the stainless steel surface of the kitchen’s center countertop while I filled a panko-crusted skillet with hot water and set it aside to soak. Dinner had been delivered to the First Family about twenty minutes earlier. Once we finished cleaning up, our official White House duties were done for the day.

My unofficial duties, however, were about to begin.

“How late do you plan to stay tonight?” Bucky asked.

“Depends,” I said, as I filled another used pan with sudsy water. Shutting off the spigot, I washed my hands before pulling down a stack of ingredient bowls from an overhead cabinet. Autumn’s snappy weather had inspired me to conjure up a new vegetable soup recipe. “Josh probably won’t make it down here until seven.” I set the bowls atop the counter Bucky had just cleaned. “We used to spend entire afternoons working together, but these days I’m lucky if he has an hour to spare.”

The president’s eleven-and-a-half-year-old son and I had forged an alliance during a tense confrontation three years ago, shortly after his father had been elected. Since that time, Josh and I had become good friends. From day one, the youngster expressed interest in the culinary arts and I delighted in nurturing his talents. Lately, however, with the pressures of middle school and his father’s reelection efforts, Josh’s time in the kitchen with me had been limited.

“Doesn’t it bother Gav that you devote so much of your free time to the First Family?” Bucky asked. “Granted, you’re not technically newlyweds anymore, but between his job and yours, it’s a wonder you get any time together.”

“We talk about it, believe me.” I laughed. “But this time at least, I’m not the one taking time away. He’s out of town again.”

“Where’s he off to this time? Another trip to the winery?”

Being careful not to answer the question directly, I kept my back to my assistant and shrugged. “It’s a good idea for him to spend time there. He left early this morning.” My misdirection wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the truth, either. I bit my lip, and hoped Bucky didn’t press the issue.

Over the past year, Gav had spent a lot of time with Bill and Erma at Spencer’s Vineyards, learning the business they intended to leave to him when they retired. But he wasn’t out at the couple’s Loudoun County winery today. Gav was on a clandestine assignment with his friend and mentor, Joe Yablonski. As always, I’d been sworn to secrecy.

“Ah, you’re both still here.”

I looked up as Peter Everett Sargeant strode into the kitchen, tablet in hand.

“Good,” he continued before either of us had a chance to reply. “I have a few updates to share with you regarding candidates for the vacant chef position.”

My second assistant and good friend, Cyan, had left us
shortly after the sequester ended, opting to pursue a more traditional culinary career. The departure of our talented and color contact lens–favoring friend had left a hole in our hearts and a void in our kitchen. Bucky and I had gotten by these past few months by putting in loads of extra time and relying on Service-By-Agreement chefs to plug our gaps. Although we’d interviewed a handful of promising candidates, we hadn’t yet found the perfect fit.

Belatedly, it dawned on me that Sargeant was alone. “Is Margaret off work again today?” I asked. “Is everything okay?”

He twisted his mouth sideways, effectively wrinkling his nose. “Apparently Friday’s family crisis is not yet resolved.”

“Apparently?” I asked, picking up on the word and his undisguised disapproval. “She hasn’t updated you? That’s not like her.”

Sargeant sniffed. “When she called in Friday, she forewarned that she may be out for more than a day or two. I find it highly inconvenient, however. We have a great deal on our schedule tomorrow and I’m unable to count on her being here.”

“Do you know what’s up?” I asked. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

“It isn’t. But no, I do not know the nature of the emergency. Margaret’s distress overwhelmed the conversation and I thought it best to keep things brief.” Tapping the tablet, he continued. “I’m here to let you know that Audrey Lund will be able to meet with us Wednesday. I’ll provide more detail later. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes, very.”

Sargeant went on. “I’ve also arranged for us to interview another candidate tomorrow at two. I trust you’ll make yourself available?” He waved a hand toward Bucky, who had wandered over to the computer station. “Mr. Reed should be able to handle the kitchen on his own at that time, correct?”

Bucky threw Sargeant a baleful glance before turning his attention to the monitor.

“Thanks, Peter,” I said. “The sooner we find the right person for the job, the happier we’ll be. Right, Bucky?”

He didn’t answer.

“Bucky?”

Gripping his bald head, my assistant stared at the computer screen with an expression of scowling disbelief. A second later he leaped into action, hammering at the volume control key until the sound came up loud enough for us all to hear.

Sargeant and I flanked him. “What happened?” I asked.

“Looks bad. I don’t know where . . .”

His thought trailed to silence as we watched the situation unfold on CNN. This kind of scene had become much too familiar of late and I struggled to figure out what was happening. Police officers attempted to establish control amid chaos, ambulances, and emergency vehicles. Bit by bit, as the camera panned and I caught sight of charred ruins, I realized this was no shooting incident.

Blackened, twisted metal fragments smoldered in the foreground. Farther back, firefighters aimed their powerful streams at a small building engulfed in flames. A giant concrete wall sitting immediately behind the garage-size structure held the flames in check.

In that gut-clenching way that memory teases us, I recognized that I’d seen this place before. Not in person, but like this—on television. On the news, perhaps. I moved closer to the screen to chase the recollection but that didn’t help; it slipped away and danced beyond my grasp.

When the shot widened and I caught sight of barbed wire spooled across the top of the giant concrete wall, I sucked in a breath.

The news reporter spoke solemnly into the unsteady camera. “To update viewers just tuning in, we are live on the scene in Encotere, Wisconsin, where a bomb reportedly went off a little while ago, killing at least three people and injuring several others.”

My stomach rolled over on itself.

“That’s it,” Bucky said. “That’s why it looks so familiar.”

That teasing memory that had quietly lured me in mere moments ago now roared up with a triumphant crash, bombarding me with powerful, terrifying recollections.

“It’s Cenga Prison again, isn’t it?” Bucky asked.

“Oh, dear,” Sargeant said. “Are you sure?”

I couldn’t find my voice. Instead, I stared at the screen, silently urging the news reporter to quit repeating himself and to share specifics. I nearly shouted
Who is responsible?
Why weren’t they telling us more?

Three years ago, Armustan failed in an attempt to force President Hyden to release a terrorist imprisoned at Cenga Prison. Armustan may have set out to test our then-new president’s resolve, but it’d also tested mine. Although I’d been partially responsible for the United States’s eventual triumph, I’d never been able to forget the terror the president’s son, Josh, and I had experienced that night.

I watched and waited, telling myself that the regime responsible for the attack had long been overthrown. But their countryman, the terrorist Farbod Ansari, remained incarcerated in Cenga Prison to this day. It
had
to be Armustan behind the bombing. And I had no doubt that this time its extremists were desperate to prevail.

We listened and listened again, but no more details came.

“Three people dead this time,” I said when the newsman threw the story back to the studio. “What were they hoping
to accomplish? They can’t possibly believe that killing American citizens is going to help achieve their goals.”

“You don’t know that Armustan is behind this,” Sargeant said.

“No?” I held out my hands. “Then why are they the first culprit that came to
your
mind?”

Flustered, Sargeant tried to backpedal. “Simply speculation at this point.”

Bucky turned down the volume and picked up a dishcloth. “An educated guess is more like it,” he said with a glance back at the fiery scene. He picked up one of the bowls and began drying it.

“Those are clean,” I said. “I pulled them out for Josh.”

“Oh, right.” He dropped the bowl with a clang.

Sargeant excused himself. “Regardless of who is responsible, I imagine the president will require assistance. Which means I need to be in my office. Good night.”

After he left, Bucky and I continued to watch the story develop. We learned almost nothing more. No specific details. No information on who had been killed, or why. The commentators merely offered rephrased regurgitations of the little they’d provided thus far.

“I’m tired of violence,” Bucky said. “No matter where it is or who’s responsible.”

“The timing is suspicious,” I said as thoughts began to form. “Think about it. When the terrorists from Armustan struck last time—”

“You say that so calmly. ‘When the terrorists struck’ makes it sound like an unfortunate happening at a distant location. Ollie, they
kidnapped
you. They kidnapped the president’s son. Don’t tell me that experience doesn’t still give you nightmares.”

He was right, but that was beside the point. “What I’m
getting at is that last time—yes, when they kidnapped me and Josh—it was shortly after President Hyden’s inauguration.”

Bucky nodded agreement.

“Elections are less than two months away,” I said. “What better time to strike again? That’s why I have no doubt that Armustan is behind this. They’ve had three years to regroup from their massive humiliation. Now they’re back and they want to see the president fail.”

“You really believe that?” Bucky asked. “Granted, their guy is still incarcerated there. I mean, I don’t doubt that Armustan could be behind this bomb today, but you make it sound personal.”

“I’m no expert on that region, but Gav has shared what he can. The Armustanian people are very proud. Dishonor to the family is considered justification for killing.”

“Kind of like Klingons?”

The question surprised a laugh out of me. “Not exactly. But to extend the metaphor, if I were President Hyden I’d go to red alert.” I glanced toward the doorway and lowered my voice. “When Josh shows up, I’ll make sure to remind him how important it is to follow instructions from the Secret Service. Even though Josh is accompanied by trained professionals whenever he leaves the White House, he needs to remain aware, and wary, as well.”

“Scare the kid, why don’t you?”

“The Armustanians didn’t hesitate when it came to threatening the Hyden kids last time.”

As I said that, a Secret Service agent rounded the corner and stepped into the kitchen. “Chef Paras, I’m here to tell you that Josh will not be able to meet with you this evening.”

I tightened my mouth. “Did something come up?” I asked.

“He changed his mind.” The agent spread his hands. “Sorry.”

When the man was gone, I grabbed the bowls I’d pulled out and returned them to their cabinet glad, at least, that I hadn’t yet filled them with the ingredients I’d planned to use tonight.

“I know you’re disappointed, Ollie,” Bucky said. “But, remember, Josh is eleven and it’s Sunday night. How much you want to bet he procrastinated all weekend and is finally catching up on homework right now?”

“Maybe you’re right,” I said, but my heart wasn’t in it.