Recipes for Disaster (5 page)

And because they were willing to sell out Carl—the hard man who did the Quorum’s dirtiest jobs—he turned on them instead. 

Unfortunately, we led Carl to them before we could bring them to justice, let alone find their cache of munitions or any intel on the Quorum’s cash stash.

Did Carl take this information with him to his watery grave?

I certainly hope so. 

Jack, however, is convinced the Quorum is out there somewhere, licking its wounds and biding its time—

And that somehow Lee Chiffray plays a part in Quorum 2.0. 

Lee’s investment in Fantasy Island—the locale of our last mission, and one of the Quorum’s many shell corporations—is somewhat suspicious. But it was with his help that I was able to save my daughter from a boy who tried to rape her.

So yes, I’m willing to give Lee the benefit of the doubt.

Once, anyway.

Besides, it was Babette who taught Trisha to spell 
Quorum
. 

If she’s dropping us a very big hint, it’s time we pick up on it. Jack should, anyway. She’s made it quite clear to him that she’d divulge anything to him, if only he’d ask.

Lee waves me over. I’m relieved to see that Babette is nowhere in sight. 

“I’m happy to see a friendly and familiar face.” He holds out his hand.

I shake it, but he won’t let go. At least, not until I acknowledge him with a smile.

I wish I didn’t automatically blush as well. To cover up my embarrassment, I ask, “Thank you, although I’m surprised to see you here. I thought Babette was putting Janie into Exbury Academy, the private school?”

He shakes his head. “That was the original game plan, but Janie and I convinced her otherwise. Why pay an outrageous tuition, when Hilldale has such wonderful public schools—especially when they’re attended by Janie’s closest friend. She insisted she’d only go to ‘Trisha’s school.’” He grins. “In fact, she threatened to hold her breath until she was black and blue. Of course Babette gave in.”  

I laugh. “It’s certainly cute, the way those two have taken to each other.”

“Something tells me they’ll share a lifelong friendship.” He sounds hopeful. 

I don’t want to believe he’s playing me, but there’s always that possibility. All the more reason to shrug off his attempts at cozying up. “I’m surprised Babette didn’t want to take Janie into school today,” I murmur, “what with it being the first day of school and all.”

“She thought it more important to go shopping with her stylist.” He grimaces at the thought, then adds, “You see, we’ve got guests coming to town. You know Babette. Her way of prepping for company is to have an outfit for every occasion.”

It’s obvious that Babette’s selfishness bothers Lee. Granted, their whirlwind courtship and marriage took everyone by surprise, but he’s no gold digger. In fact, Lee’s fortune is comparable to the one Jonah left behind. 

If it’s not the money, what’s the true attraction? Certainly not her narcissism, childish jealousies, or her blatant disregard of others.

I guess she’s great in bed.

The murmuring crowd hushes as Miss Darling raises her hand for attention. “My, my! Look at this wonderful turn-out! Thank you, all, for taking the time to take tea with my staff and me.” She opens her arms, as if to embrace the teachers flanking her on both sides. “I want to introduce each and every one of them. First let me welcome Miss McGonagall, who is heading up our first grade. We hope she has a long and fruitful tenure, nurturing Hilldale’s youngest and brightest students.” The first graders’ parents are front and center, and their thunderous applause is a reflection of their proximity to the school’s seat of power. “Then there is our second grade teacher, Mr. Fitch—”

And so it goes, with all the teacher introductions. Miss Darling rhapsodizes about an instructor’s particular strength—the third grade teacher’s love of the physical sciences, say; or the fifth grade teacher’s innovative math curriculum. Every school needs a champion like Miss Darling. She knows that the growth of a student has less to do with the bricks and mortar that surround them, and everything to do with teachers and parents who love and nurture them.

After a heartfelt round of applause, a parent in the front row raises her hand. “What a wonderful staff! This year is off to a wonderful start. But I can’t help but feel … well, we as a community still have so much work to do with our sweet little school. Take the slate of enrichment programs. I know for a fact it’s why so many of my son’s friends have chosen private schools instead. For example, Exbury Academy has instructors in French, Chinese and Russian, as well as Spanish.” 

 “And the school’s library is the size of the local junior college,” a second mother pipes up.

“For that matter, Exbury also has a bus to take the children on field trips. It’s hard for working parents to take time off for carpooling,” another parent points out.

“They have to work pretty hard to pay Exbury’s twenty-thousand-dollar annual tuition,” a father mutters in a loud voice.

Nervous laugher crackles through the room, but no one wants to voice the obvious: even posh little Hilldale has become a community of haves and have-nots.

A third mom adds, “Why does St. Jasper’s fifth grade basketball team always win every game? Could its world class gym have something to do with that—you know, the one with the leather captain’s chairs in terraced rows?”

“It helps that the coach once played at Notre Dame,” a father in the fifth row grouses. “He knows how to make those kids take the game seriously. If they lose, it’s ten laps around that beautiful new gym.”

The next thing you know, the whole place is in an uproar. Yes, the parents love what Miss Darling has done—“with so little,” is how they put it. “But Hilldale Elementary is  competing with the schools who are stealing away those students who see a more challenging environment …” and “I love what you’ve been able to do here, but there is so much still to be done …”

Miss Darling is under no illusions that she can quiet this crowd with a single raised pinky. Instead, she lets loose with a whistle that could hail a taxi on Fifth Avenue during five o’clock rush hour. 

The crowd, mollified, zips their lips.

“Hilldale Elementary is a public school,” she reminds us. “We do what we can with the state funds allocated to us, on a per-student basis. My mission is to hire those who are skilled and enthusiastic about your children. Now, if you wish to contribute to our foundation, and earmark your funds for programs you feel will enhance our curriculum—”

“A brilliant idea!” Lee declares.

All eyes turn to him. 

Of course, they recognize him, if not from the society pages, then from his profile in 
Forbes
, or his 
Vanity Fair 
cover. And those who hadn’t attended the reception welcoming them back from their world tour honeymoon would have read about his marriage to Babette in either the 
New York Times
’ “Vows” column, or the full-page spread in 
Town & Country
.

“I’d be the first to belly up to the bar. I’ll make a one-hundred-thousand-dollar donation. In fact, make that a five-dollars-to-one matching grant.”

The parents are too stunned to speak. Suddenly, one of them applauds. In no time, everyone is clapping.

Miss Darling murmurs, “That’s quite generous of you, Mr. Chiffray. How would you like it earmarked?”

He opens his arms wide, as if embracing the whole room. “I’ll leave that up to you—and the parents, of course. The bottom line is that we’re all in agreement. Our children deserve a first class—that is, a 
world
 class—school. Why pay lip service to our ideals? I say put our money where our mouths are. It’s a matching grant, so let’s think out of the box. Perhaps those who spoke up first would like to chair a committee for this new vision of our community school. You can also mobilize the other parents who couldn’t make it here today to do likewise.”

Once again, the room is energized. Everyone seems to be talking at once.

Miss Darling walks up to Lee and gives him a hug. “Thank you so much, Mr. Chiffray. We have many wealthy families in Hilldale. They see their children—and their children’s schools—as a reflection of their own success. I’ve done my best not to let them down, but the purse strings are always tight.” Miss Darling’s worry shows up as a hairline crack in an otherwise perfect porcelain brow.

“Glad to be of service.” He hands her a business card. “Here’s my private email. Keep me abreast of any major fundraising benchmarks. It will be interesting to see which programs will benefit from it.”

I’m already twenty minutes late for my meeting at Acme, so I shake Miss Darling’s hand and follow Lee out the door. 

“That was quite a speech in there,” I say, as I pass him. “The way you won over that crowd, you could run for public office.”

“Ha! I may be impulsive, but I’m not crazy.” He stops, as if a thought just struck him. “Unless someone offers me the presidency. But they’d have to promise that it’s a slam-dunk. I only play to win.”

A fellow Acme agent, Dominic Fleming, knows this first hand. During a Fantasy Island baccarat tournament, someone laced his martini with Digitalis, and he went into anaphylactic shock. 

Dominic survived, but Lee won the baccarat tournament.

We have no proof he was involved, and I would hate to think it were the case.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that things are never as they seem.

For Janie’s sake, I hope he’s one of the good guys.

Chapter 3

Political Parties

Organizations that seek to achieve political power by electing its members to public office are called political parties.

Joining such a party is thought to be free. Wrong. As with everything in life, you pay to play. 

In this case, it’s probably your belief in your party that is claimed as payment, since those in the party who are nominated, run and are elected to public office invariably vote the interests of those who really put them in office: not necessarily you or the rest of their party members, but their largest donors.

You’ve heard it before and you’ll hear it again, here: follow the money.

Please don’t call me a party pooper. Instead, consider me your party planner! I’ll start by passing along this perfect recipe for your next cocktail party:

Crescent Chicken Rolls

(From Melinda Stahnke, Conyers, Georgia)

Ingredients

2 cups shredded Chicken

1 small onion, diced

1 cup cheddar cheese

1 can evaporated milk

1 can cream of chicken soup

2 cans crescent rolls (8 pack)

Directions

1: Preheat oven to 400 degrees and grease a casserole dish.

2: Mix chicken, onion and cheese. 

3: Place a small handful on crescent roll, roll it up and place in pan.  

4: Fill all the rolls and place in pan, not quite touching.  

5: Sprinkle any remaining chicken mixture over rolls.

6: Mix cream of chicken soup and evaporated milk, and pour over the rolls.

7: Bake at 400 degrees for time on crescent roll packaging.

“About damn time you got here,” Jack mutters to me. “Thank goodness Ryan’s been on an emergency call for the past half-hour, otherwise he’d have your scalp. What took you so long?” 

“First day of school. Parent-Staff meet-and-greet. You know how it is.” 

I look around the conference room, where my Acme mission team has gathered. Besides Jack, there’s Abu Nagashahi, who acts as our cut-out and back-up; Arnie Locklear, our tech op; and Emma Honeycutt, who provides the team its ComInt. 

There must be some angle of this mission that includes the Quorum because even Dominic Fleming, Acme’s London asset and the new head of Quorum intel, is also here. He and the rest of the team are gathered around a laptop, sitting in the middle of the conference room.

“Everyone looks so engrossed. What have I missed?”

Before Jack can answer, Dominic solemnly beckons me over. “Donna, thank goodness you’ve come! Your fine eye is badly needed on this.”

“Of course, Dominic, any way I can help.” Has there been a terrorist attack? The assassination of a head of state? A deadly virus released on an unassuming public?

I grab Jack’s arm to nudge him forward, too, but he pulls away. Shaking his head, he declares, “Trust me, this is more your area of expertise than mine.”

I’m flattered that he’d admit that. I head over to the laptop to see what has them mesmerized. 

Pictured on the screen is a very elegant study. The room’s high, coffered ceilings are adorned in Italianate frescoes. Three of the walls are ornately-paneled in an Empire style, whereas the fourth holds a deep-set bookcase. Antique knickknacks—vases, statuettes, photos—are artfully displayed among its books. A set of French doors are open slightly. The thick curtain seems to be moving slightly in the breeze. The desk by the windows is a Louis IV, whereas the sofa flanking the bookcase is neo-Gothic.

Dominic points toward the screen. “Your opinion, please.”

Nothing looks out of the ordinary. There is no body on the floor. No bloodstains, or bullet holes.