by Julie Hyzy
“Then what?”
He got a sad, thoughtful look in his eyes. “I want to be able to help them.”
“Okay,” I said, still not understanding. “How?”
When Gav didn’t want to continue a conversation, his eyes became unreadable. He put up a protective wall. Sometimes, as he struggled to sort things out for himself, he would even put physical distance between us before he was comfortable enough to share. I was much the same way, and we’d learned to give one another the space we needed, whenever we needed it.
I watched the smile in his eyes dim. “We’ll have to talk about that.”
Even though he continued to rub my back, the moment was over. I could tell that he had something big on his mind, but apparently this was not the time.
“Okay.” I stood back up, kissed him on the forehead, and returned to the stove to finish pulling dinner together.
“Tell me about Marcel,” he said. “What’s going on with him?”
Over dinner, I told Gav all I knew: Marcel was conscious, lucid, and angry to be hospitalized once again.
“Did you talk to him?”
I nodded as I forked a mouthful of green beans.
Gav pressed on. “And he hasn’t told you that he’s suffering from any ailment?”
I swallowed. “He swears he didn’t take the wrong dosage this time and I believe him. He has no reason to lie about that. You know, of course, that the White House isn’t taking any chances. They’ve ordered a bunch of tests.”
“And the doctors don’t believe this could be related to the first incident?”
“Doubtful. He’s had days to allow that medicine to get through his system, and they even cut back on his dosage temporarily, just in case. They’re monitoring him closely,” I said, “but he was being monitored just as closely before he was released the first time. Nobody has answers.”
“He has to be so frustrated.”
“Tell me about it. It looks like he may have suffered a concussion when he hit his head. He’s out of commission at the White House until he’s fully recovered.”
I asked Gav about his day at work, and his training. I knew how much he wanted to get back into the field and into the action, but they didn’t want him to take on more than he could handle and so were taking it slow until they knew he was back up to full speed. His superiors had suggested extra training, and he’d been at that for a couple of weeks now.
“You’ve heard of muscle memory,” he said with a humorous expression. “Seems as though my muscles have forgotten everything they’d ever learned. I’m more out of shape than I’ve ever been.”
“I beg to differ. You’re in great shape.”
“Thanks,” he said, “but not compared to where I was. I don’t remember being this sore in my life, ever. Even during basic training.”
“But you can feel things getting better, can’t you?”
He smiled across the table. “Days like this make me wonder if I’m getting too old for field work.”
“Old?” I nearly choked on my food. “You’re in your early forties.”
“Secret Service agents need to be nimble, agile, and fast. At this point I’m none of these things.”
If only he could see himself the way I saw him. Compared to most men his age, Gav was a fine specimen. He was tall, slim but not emaciated, and when he took his shirt off my breath caught at the sight of muscles the rest of the world didn’t get to see. The man was beautiful. In every sense of the word.
“But you’re working to get back to where you were,” I said.
“I hope I get there.”
There was something in his eyes that made me believe he wasn’t really hearing me. That there was more on his mind. More doubts about himself, perhaps?
“You will,” I said.
I was about to say more when my cell phone rang. I reached for it, making a face of surprise when I read the display. “It’s Lyman Hall Hospital,” I said, then answered, “Hello?”
Marcel’s booming, French accent greeted me. “Ah! Olivia!”
I held the phone away from my ear.
“How are you?” I asked, but he was still talking and didn’t hear the question.
“I am calling from the phone in my room,” he said. “My cell phone will not work here.” He made a tsking sound and continued without pausing for breath. “Olivia, you must help me. I need your assistance.”
With the phone a good six inches from my head, and Marcel speaking so loudly, Gav could hear every word. He and I exchanged a look of confusion.
“Absolutely, Marcel. What do you need? You sound very good, by the way. Are you feeling better?”
Again, he ignored my question. “Olivia, this is very important and I do not like speaking on the telephone about this.”
“Okay,” I said, this time with hesitation. “What’s on your mind?”
“Are you in a place where it is safe to talk? You are not at the White House, correct?”
“I’m home,” I answered, wondering what was going on. “Gav is with me.”
“Good. He is safe,” he said. “I cannot leave this room because the phone is attached to the wall.” He made another noise, this one of disgust. “Why is it that they diminish power for cell phones in hospitals? Is this not where most people will need to make important calls?”
I didn’t have an answer for that. “What’s going on?”
“One moment,” he said.
What I heard next sounded like wind, or perhaps fabric movement. A couple of seconds later, Marcel was back. “Are you able to hear me?” His voice was lower, muffled.
I pulled the phone closer to my ear. “What are you doing?”
“I have covered myself with the sheets and my pillow,” he said. “I want no one other than you and your agent to hear what I have to say.”
“Marcel, I don’t understand.”
“Olivia.” He took a deep breath, the sound of which was magnified from being under wraps. “I was drugged.”
“What?” The useless question escaped my lips instinctively. “Are you telling me that’s why you collapsed?”
“It is. There is no doubt.”
My mind reeled. “How did your doctors discover this? What were you drugged with?”
“No, no, you misunderstand,” Marcel said quickly. “My doctors claim to have no idea why I lost consciousness. They have ordered toxicology tests but the results of those are not in yet.”
“Then how do you know you were drugged?”
“My friend Franco brought me my laptop and I have been doing some investigating. You would be proud of me, no?”
I could tell from the look on Gav’s face that he was following the conversation. He looked as confused as I was.
“Tell me everything,” I said into the phone. “What are you talking about?”
Marcel adopted a patient tone, which, for him, was an enormous exercise in restraint. “I do not faint,” he began. “Except for that single incident with a mistake in my dosage, I am not a person who loses consciousness, nor do I have any illnesses that might cause me to suffer such indignity.” He gave a vexed huff.
“I understand,” I said. “And so you want answers.”
“Which these doctors do not seem willing to provide.” He made another tsking noise. “It isn’t that they are hiding information from me. It is that they don’t know. So I took it upon myself to find out. I put my symptoms into that Google box and voilà!”
I bit my lower lip. “What did you find?”
“It is classic,” he said. “Smooth and silky, like a dark ganache, there is a drug that works to render individuals unconscious. It works very quickly and is virtually undetectable.”
“What is it?”
“GHB,” he said, enunciating the letters carefully.
Gav mouthed the words as Marcel spoke them aloud. “Gamma-hydroxybutyrate.”
I knew a little about the drug. Enough to know how unusual it was to screen for. “They tested you for GHB?” I
asked.
“They did not.”
“Then how do you know that’s what happened?”
Marcel let loose a sigh that conveyed exasperation. “I have every symptom. I am, what you call, a textbook case. There is no doubt in my mind that one of the Saardiscan men put this into my drink.”
“I don’t understand,” I said again.
“Have any of them experienced these symptoms? Have any of them needed to be taken to the hospital?”
“No.”
“You see,” he said. “I was targeted. They did this to me.”
“To what end?” I asked. Not because I wanted to argue the point with Marcel. Our pastry chef was clearly troubled by this theory. “What would they stand to gain with you in the hospital? GHB knocks people out temporarily. What would that do for them?”
“How should I know?” Marcel asked, his voice so shrill at that point that I’m sure everyone on the hospital floor heard it, pillow over his head or not. “That is why I need your help. You must find out why they would do this.”
Words failed me.
“He wouldn’t have been tested for GHB as a matter of course,” Gav whispered, close to my ear so that Marcel wouldn’t be able to hear. “Chances are his body has already metabolized it. That is, if there were any there to begin with.”
“How’s your head?” I asked Marcel. “Did you need any stitches?”
“Fourteen,” he said. “It is very hot under here.” I could tell, from the noises in the background, when he pulled the sheets and pillow away. “Ah. There. Better.”
“Any updates about the concussion?”
“Our chief usher believes that my impairment renders me unable to work in the kitchen. He has prohibited me from returning until I complete certain examinations.”
“I’m sorry, Marcel,” I said. “But I understand Peter Sargeant’s directive. Concussions are serious. We don’t want you to rush your recovery and possibly make things worse.”
“Do not think that my head injury is affecting my judgment, Olivia,” he said. “I know you would suspect that I am feeble-brained right now.”
“Not at all,” I said, though the idea had crossed my mind. “But I am worried for you.”
“If you want to help, then you must investigate this. I know that my chocolate had a more salty taste than it should have. I was disappointed even though I knew I had not erred while assembling the ingredients. GHB has a salty taste. You see?”
“Have you brought this to the attention of the Secret Service?”
“Your handsome new husband is now aware, yes?”
“Yes,” I agreed, though I wished I didn’t have to. Rather than look distraught by my admission, Gav looked thoughtful. He continued to pay close attention as Marcel went on.
“I will, of course, tell Agent MacKenzie, but you must promise me,” he said. “Of everyone at the White House, you are the person who is best at uncovering the truth.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I would,” he said with more than a touch of enthusiasm. “You have unmasked killers and have put yourself at great personal risk for many people you do not even know. Will you not help a friend?”
At that I had no choice. Marcel was right. He was my friend and I owed it to him. What might be even more to the point was that if the Saardiscans had sabotaged his chocolate, then everyone in the White House was at risk. The chances of that were slim, of course. I hoped all of tonight’s drama had more to do with our pastry chef’s concussion than any real threat.
“I’ll look into it, Marcel.”
“My dearest Olivia, I knew I could count on you.”
“I’ll be in touch. Don’t worry another minute.” Gav regarded me with an odd expression. I shrugged. “You concentrate on getting better so that we have you back in the White House as soon as we can.”
When I hung up, Gav asked, “How, exactly, do you plan to look into this?”
I didn’t know, and admitted as much. “I couldn’t refuse him. Not when he was so distraught.”
“I understand.”
“Do you think he’s imagining all this?”
“The man suffered a concussion. It’s possible. The bigger question is, what do you think?”
“Marcel is fond of drama, but he doesn’t make things up.” I was reasoning aloud, which often helped. “I understand the concussion could be causing him to imagine such a scenario, but—like I asked him—what would the Saardiscans stand to gain by taking him out?”
“Nothing comes to mind?”
“The only thing,” I said, “and this is a stretch, is that after the first incident, when we didn’t know how long Marcel would be out, Sargeant asked Kilian to take over as pastry chef. When Marcel returned to the kitchen, those plans were scrapped.”
“That’s a fairly extreme action to take.”
“It is,” I said, “and Kilian doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who would do anyone harm on purpose.”
“What about the other men? Would they take Marcel out to help elevate their leader’s position?”
“No,” I said. “They don’t seem like they’re all that close. I’m at a loss here. I told Marcel I’d look into it, but I don’t have the first idea of how to do that.”
“Keep your eyes open,” he said. “There’s really not much else you can do.”
CHAPTER 14
Bucky and I had about an hour alone together the next morning before our Saardiscan guests arrived. In that short amount of time we not only prepared the First Family’s breakfast, we also set up another schedule for the remainder of the Saardiscans’ visit. Again.
“This schedule has changed every single day since they’ve been here,” Bucky said as we plodded through the process. “I’ve lost count of the iterations.”
“Can you imagine how scatterbrained we must look to them? They came here to learn about our methods and we haven’t had a single normal day since they arrived.”
“Whose bright idea was it for them to stay for two weeks?” Bucky asked. “Three days would have been plenty.”
“What do you think about Marcel’s suspicions?” I kept my voice low. Even though we usually had a bit of advance notice before the team showed up, I didn’t want anyone to overhear.
Bucky stared out the doorway as though he expected the Saardiscans to tromp through at any minute. “We’ve seen stranger things happen around here,” he said. “I can’t rule it out.”
“Neither can I.”
“What do you plan to do about it?”
“There’s not much that can be done. However, we,” I said, emphasizing the word and wiggling a finger to link us both, “can find out more about the men. Who they are. If they’re capable of this kind of attack. Look around here.” I perched my fists at my waist and did a slow circle around the room, seeing it all as though for the first time. “A kitchen is a dangerous place. Chefs have knives and chemicals at their disposal. Most powerful of all, they have knowledge. If one of our visitors is a bad egg, we might be in serious trouble.”
I took a closer look at the schedule we’d set up. “How about we take turns working with them one on one?” I asked.
“I’m not sure what you’re going for.”
“Here.” I pointed to the first task of the day. “We divvied the men up so that two work with you while two work with me. What if you take one, I take three?” I penciled in lines to show what I meant. “That way you can get to know that one person better. Maybe if we’re able to establish rapport with them, one on one, they’ll start dishing on one another.”
“You really think so?”
“Unless you have a better idea?” I asked, not meaning to speak so sharply. “I think our best chance to find out if there’s a hidden agenda is to get them to drop their guard.”
“And if they don’t?”
I held up my hands. “I don’t know.”
“The idea of an attack on Marcel is preposterous,” he said. “I mean, why? What possible good
could come from drugging the guy who’s supposed to be showing you around the place?”
“I’ve been asking myself that question all night. The only explanation I came up with is that with our pastry chef out of commission, that puts Kilian as the front-runner for desserts.”
“Lame,” he said.
“You think? I mean, there was no way they could have predicted that Kilian’s expertise would be tapped in Marcel’s absence. And think about this: If Marcel is right and they used GHB, that causes only temporary unconsciousness. There was no way to engineer it so that he’d hit his head. Even if Marcel collapsed, he could be back within hours. What good could that possibly do any of them?”
“Unless,” Bucky said, “whatever they needed to do is done now?”
“What do you mean?”
“While Marcel was unconscious, they had the run of the chocolate shop, right? Could they have stolen something? Purloined a recipe, or done something like that?”
“Maybe,” I allowed, “but that seems extreme.”
“I don’t have the answers. That’s your job.”
“How about I take a run at the chocolate shop, just to make sure nothing seems amiss?”
“Have at it, boss,” he said. “I’ll hold down the fort.”
I headed out through the refrigeration room and crossed the basement hall, saying hello to a couple of staffers along the way before walking into the chocolate shop. The room was quiet and dark. I turned on the lights. Fitted with stainless steel appliances and countertops, the room was efficiently laid out. Good thing, because it was even smaller than the mezzanine-level pastry kitchen. Again, I marveled at how Marcel could produce delicious artistry in such limited space.
As I looked around, I realized that I so seldom visited this area, I’d have no clue if something was out of place. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to spend a couple of minutes checking. Focusing, I blew out a breath of frustration as I made a slow circuit around the room.
The cleaning crew had been in here since Marcel’s collapse, and the place sparkled. On a whim, I opened up the refrigerator and peeked inside. As was his habit, Marcel had everything precisely labeled and neatly stacked in containers and jars.
