Foreign Éclairs (6 page)

Gav stood and wrapped an arm around my waist. He smiled, but his eyes weren’t in it. “I wish we could.”

“You’re in a cheery mood,” Bucky said late Wednesday afternoon as we prepared the First Family’s dinner entrée: pork chops with apple, walnut, and Gorgonzola salsa. With as much assembled ahead of time as possible, we were waiting until just before serving time to cook the chops.

“I am,” I said. “Everything went right today. Perfectly right. Do you know how seldom that happens? No timing issues. No missing ingredients. I’ve got a date with my handsome husband a few hours from now, and I plan to enjoy every minute.”

“That man is good for you,” Bucky said. “I’ve never seen you as happy as you’ve been since the two of you got together.”

“I never expected this sort of completeness in my life. Sounds pretty sappy, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all. You deserve this. You both do.”

“You know . . .” I tapped a finger against my lips. “I’m feeling so lighthearted I could practically burst into song.”

“What are you? Alto? Soprano? Are you considering
hiring that chef to harmonize?” Bucky asked as laughter grabbed hold of him. “Dinner and a show in the White House kitchen every night. I love it!”

“I’m feeling a little guilty about rejecting that woman,” I said. “Well, I haven’t actually turned her down yet, but I intend to.” Glancing around the quiet space, I asked, “How bad could it be?”

“She hasn’t been able to hold onto a position for longer than six months, remember,” he said, still grinning. “Wanna bet she doesn’t limit herself to low-level humming?”

“You’re probably right; poor thing. If she wants a career in a high-pressure environment she’d have to learn to control that habit.”

Bucky looked up at the clock. “Speaking of interviews, you have another one coming up in about a half hour. Let’s hope the third time is the charm.”

“That’s exactly—”

The kitchen phone rang. As I reached for the receiver, I groaned. “It’s Sargeant. Let’s hope candidate number three hasn’t canceled.”

“Olivia,” Sargeant said when I answered, “would it be possible for you to come to my office a little early?”

“Has the candidate arrived already?”

“No. I have another matter to discuss with you before the interview begins.” He didn’t provide any further information but the tone of his voice led me to believe this “other matter” had nothing to do with hiring a new chef.

“I’ll be up there shortly.”

“Very good,” he said.

“What’s up now?” Bucky asked when I replaced the receiver.

“No idea.” I rubbed my forehead. “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough, though. Will you be okay handling the rest of dinner on your own?”

“Piece of cake.”

“Thanks.” Pulling off my apron and checking my smock, as I had so many times this week before heading to meet with Peter Sargeant, I mused aloud, “This is what I get for expounding on how perfectly the day was going.”

“It might be nothing,” Bucky said.

“Ewww.” I noticed a starburst-shaped splatter near my collar, which sent me scrambling for a new smock. “Maybe.” I tore off the old one and pulled on the new. “How do I look?”

“Like a chef I’d want to work for,” Bucky said. “Good luck with the interview.”

“Third time’s the charm,” I reminded him. “Keep the good thought.”

*   *   *

I arrived at Sargeant’s office less than five minutes later. Elaine greeted me warmly and told me to go right in and shut the door.

“Uh-oh,” I said as I took a seat across from him. “Closed doors usually portend bad news.”

Like last time, he held his reading glasses in one hand while he rubbed his eyes with the other. “Paul Vasquez made this job look so easy,” he said before looking up at me. Sargeant had been in the position of chief usher for more than a year but, to me, it seemed as though he’d aged at least five in the interim.

“What happened?” I asked.

He donned his glasses to read from his notes. “Detective Beem called me about a half hour ago. He and Detective Kager were able to uncover more information about the two men who attacked you.”

“Viceboy and Dagger.”

“It appears that the duo was actually a trio.”

Sitting up straighter, I conjured an image from Sunday
night. “There weren’t three,” I said. “I watched the two men run away. There was no one else with them.”

“The third member of the group is either another general or a gang lieutenant, but may not have been with Viceboy and Dagger when they robbed you. The detectives have reason to believe this individual may be able to shed light on the situation. They plan to pick him up for questioning.”

“He wasn’t with them, but he’s able to help with the investigation? I don’t understand.”

“The detectives have apparently taken our request to heart and are pursuing the matter with more enthusiasm than they exhibited last time they were here. Detective Beem wanted me to know that he and Kager would be following up personally with this third gang associate.”

“Does this guy have a name?”

Sargeant frowned at his notes. “Cutthroat.”

“Lovely.”

“They’re hoping Cutthroat will be able to tell us what Viceboy and Dagger were doing so far off their turf when they were executed, and why two gang generals would risk stealing a purse when they had minions willing to do that kind of dirty work for them.”

“I appreciate the update,” I said. “I think your comment about it being a favor to the White House is what piqued their interest. Thank you for that, by the way.”

He nodded. “I’m pleased they haven’t dropped the matter. Agent Walker and I haven’t had much luck connecting with the team investigating Viceboy and Dagger’s case, but we are in contact with the team handling Margaret’s murder.”

“Any news there?” I asked.

Sargeant bunched his mouth and took a deep breath before answering. “I’ve seen photos of the crime scene. Before you ask, trust me, Olivia: You don’t want any part of them.
There’s nothing to be gained, and the images will haunt you for years. I know they’ll haunt me.” He pulled his glasses off his face and rubbed his eyes again. “Her home was ransacked—vandalized. She died at the hands of monsters. I hope whoever tormented her suffers the same fate.”

There was nothing I could say except, “I’m sorry.”

Elaine tapped on the door, opened it, and peeked in. “Ms. Catalano is here for her interview.”

Sargeant took another deep breath. “Thank you, Elaine. Please send her in.” When his assistant left, he made eye contact with me. “We’re overdue for good news. Let’s hope this candidate is a winner.”

*   *   *

Sargeant and I asked Lottie Catalano most of our standard questions and she delivered thoughtful, intelligent answers to all of them. Older than Cyan by a few years—closer to my age, probably—Lottie had a small mouth, pink, puffy cheeks, and a tendency to bite her bottom lip. Her face was damp with perspiration, but her eyes were alert.

We were about three-quarters of the way through the interview when Sargeant asked about her availability. The sooner she could start the better, but everyone understood the need to provide a current employer with appropriate notice.

For the first time during the interview, Lottie winced. “I hope you both understand how very much I desire to work here,” she said.

Sargeant and I exchanged a glance. There was a “but” screaming behind her words.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“I first learned about the job opening three weeks ago,” she said. “I applied immediately, of course. I never dreamed I’d be called in for an interview, but here I am.”

We both waited.

“
Four
weeks ago,” she said, stressing the word, “my husband and I put a bid on a house.” She bit her lip. “In California. His parents are out there, and our daughter is almost three. We believed it would be a good environment for our little family. Our bid was accepted, and we began making plans to move.”

“Why did you apply for this position if you knew you were relocating?”

She lifted both hands. “I couldn’t
not
apply,” she said. “This would be a dream job for me. I put my name in fully knowing that even if I were lucky enough to wrangle an interview, I would most likely be unable to actually accept the job. When the White House called me last week to schedule today’s interview, I couldn’t find it in my heart to refuse. I just couldn’t.”

I watched my high hopes for hiring this woman shred into tatters around me.

“The thing is,” she went on, “two days before that, our Realtor called. The house inspector uncovered a problem. A big one. I won’t bore you with all the details, but right now it looks as though our plans are in flux.”

“Oh?” My mood brightened. “You mean there’s a chance you may be staying in D.C.?”

She kept her hands in her lap, but her fingers never stopped moving. “If the house purchase doesn’t go through and if I’m hired here, then there’s no question: We’ll stay.”

“That’s a lot of ifs.” Sargeant’s back was rigid and his words were sharp.

“I wanted to be as up-front about my situation as possible. Contractually, we’re required to allow the home sellers a chance to resolve the problem before we can walk away from the deal. If we cancel before then, we stand to lose a lot of money we can’t afford. Until we know which way it will go, I’m in limbo.” Her gaze flicked from me to Sargeant, back to
me. “I completely understand if this situation disqualifies me from consideration, and I apologize for wasting your time.”

Years of working with Sargeant provided me with insight to his moods. His darkening brow, the exactitude with which he folded his hands atop his desk, and the set of his jaw presaged a storm about to blow.

Jumping in before he could quash Lottie Catalano’s hope with a scathing dismissal, I said, “We truly appreciate your honesty.” Getting to my feet, I said, “I hope we have the opportunity to discuss this further. Will you keep us updated on your situation?”

Lottie’s visible panic transformed into a glow of excitement as she stood to shake my hand. “Yes, of course I will. I’d be happy to. The minute I know anything I will be in touch. Thank you.”

Looking like someone who’d taken a large bite of an unripe persimmon, Sargeant got up and shook Lottie’s hand. “My office will contact you soon.” He pressed a button to summon Elaine.

“Thank you again,” she said as Sargeant’s assistant opened the door. “I was so excited to move to California, but now I really hope we get to stay here.”

From the doorway, Elaine offered a bland smile as she ushered Lottie out. “This way,” she said.

When Lottie and Elaine were gone, I glanced at my watch. The interview hadn’t run as long as expected, which meant I might even have time to run a comb through my hair before dinner tonight with Gav. “She was great,” I said. “I’m selfishly hoping her house deal falls through.”

Hands held aloft, Sargeant dropped into his seat with a
thud
. “Doesn’t that foolish woman realize how much we deal with every single day of our lives? How dare she waste our time when she has no idea if she’ll be able to take the job if offered?” Hands still held high, he shook them. “This
isn’t a game we’re playing here. If she couldn’t commit, she should never have agreed to this meeting. How dare she?”

I sat quietly, watching my former nemesis manage his meltdown. Feisty, short-tempered, and quick to find fault, Sargeant had aggressively nipped at my heels since his first day at the White House. We’d barely tolerated one another for the first couple of years, but after several tense moments that required us to work together in order to survive, we’d achieved a truce. Better than a truce, in my opinion. Though I could have never predicted such a thing, I now considered Sargeant a friend. And though he’d be loath to admit it, I suspected he felt the same.

“Who hired you?” I asked.

“What, me?” he asked. He blinked a couple of times as though to reorient himself. “Paul, of course.”

“What was it like? When you got the call to come interview here? Were you excited? Were you nervous?”

He leaned forward, wagging a finger at me. “I know what you’re attempting, Ms. Paras,” he said. “It won’t work. We need our employees to be cognizant of how their choices impact others, impact our efficiency, impact the White House itself. This behavior Ms. Catalano displayed—this selfishness—is unacceptable. There’s too much at stake.”

“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Peter. I don’t blame her for keeping her options open. You know what they say about fortune favoring the bold.”

“There’s no doubt you ascribe to that sentiment,” he said, but there was no bite to his tone. He waved a hand in front of his face. “She was the best we’ve talked with so far. I suppose we can forgive this indiscretion of hers, but if she’s hired, I will hold you responsible for ensuring she knows not to play fast and loose with us again.”

“Fast and loose? Really, Peter.”

Not looking at me, he shrugged, sat back, and vigorously
rubbed his chin. “Margaret’s death has hit me harder than I care to admit,” he said quietly. “I fooled myself into believing that we were safe because we work here.”

I didn’t interrupt, but he waved the air again as though I had.

“Yes, yes, I’m not dismissing your proclivity to get into trouble. Who could forget any of that?” he asked rhetorically. “And, although it’s easy to cast blame, it wasn’t until you and I found ourselves fighting for our lives together that I began to understand that these things are rarely your fault.” Eyebrow arched, he shot me a pointed look. “Note, I said ‘rarely,’ not ‘never.’”