by Julie Hyzy
We were still weeks away from the actual installation, but plans for themes and discussions about color choices had been ongoing for months. The sequester should be over by then. Or so we all hoped.
I had just finished plating the meal for the First Lady and her guests when my cell phone rang. As the butlers whisked the food away, I pulled up the device to determine who was calling. “Marcel,” I said. “How are you?”
“Olivia! I am well. Where are you?”
I told him, mentioning that the Saardiscans and Bucky were upstairs.
“Are you alone?”
“I am. What’s wrong, Marcel?”
“Olivia, you are the only one who sees the truth. You must listen to what I have to say.”
“Of course, I will. What’s up?”
“Tell me again, Olivia. You are alone?”
“Yes,” I said. “No one is around. What’s going on?”
“I have proof,” he whispered. “Proof that I was poisoned.”
My hand tightened around my cell phone’s casing. I whispered in reply, “What is it? What proof?”
“It was Kilian, I’m sure of it.” Lapsing into French, he began talking so quickly and with such agitation that, even though I was familiar with the language, I could make out only two words: chocolate, and drink.
“Marcel,” I said, trying to keep quiet, yet raise my voice enough over his deafening grievances to be heard. “Please. In English.”
He stopped his rant, took a steadying breath, then continued, speaking more slowly. “My apologies. This truth has dawned on me merely moments ago and I am beside myself. Why would this man choose to do me harm? Would he truly expect that he could take my place at the White House as pastry chef? Certainly not.”
I thought back to my discussion with Tom and Sargeant about this very matter. “Tell me your proof,” I said.
“It is so obvious, I am ashamed to have not noticed earlier. Do you remember when I lost consciousness in the pastry kitchen?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Did the visiting chefs tell you that I had shared my raspberry sauce with them?”
“They did. Kilian, in fact, was the one who told me.”
“See? See? It is Kilian who is behind all this.”
“Please, slow down. I thought you told me that you took a double dose of your blood pressure medication.”
“Yes, but I am now convinced that it was the raspberry sauce.”
“Hang on, Marcel,” I said. “Did you or didn’t you take the wrong dosage of medicine?”
“I did, but now I believe it is possible that Kilian tried to poison me, and that is the real reason I collapsed.”
I bit my lips together tightly. Marcel’s desperation was palpable, yet I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake by bringing his suppositions to Tom’s attention. “If you made the raspberry sauce, then why would you think it was poisoned?”
Marcel made another noise. He was growing impatient with me. “I passed around the container with spoons for sampling, yes? I handed it to Kilian, who shared with his colleagues. They seemed to enjoy the taste and used all but one spoon. Kilian held the plate out to me. I urged him to take it but he insisted that I should share as well. I thought he was being polite. Now I know better.”
I’d been afraid of this. Marcel’s deduction was hardly proof. “And the second incident?” I asked.
“That,” he said with emphasis, “is what made me realize that it had been Kilian all along.”
“Go on.”
“We were sampling my famous chocolate drink. You know how much everyone adores that particular creation.”
“I do,” I said. And I did. Marcel’s chocolate drink was the stuff of pure bliss.
“Not to boast, but it is such a spectacular concoction that even I cannot resist its tempting aroma. I had made enough of it for everyone to have more than a small sample. I poured it into demitasse cups and, again, passed the tray around. Again, I took the last one remaining.”
“And?” I asked. “Did you see Kilian, or anyone else, add anything to the chocolate before you drank it?”
“Of course not. If I had, I would never have brought it to my lips.”
“Then how—”
“I was instructing them. I was busy with preparations for our next item. My back was turned and my attention was drawn elsewhere.”
“There’s no real proof then, is there?” I asked.
“The salty flavoring,” he said. “I tasted additional salt in my chocolate, remember? I have a very discerning palate, you know.”
“I know you do. But if you didn’t actually see anyone add anything, then there’s no way for us to make an accusation.”
I measured my words before I continued. “I know that Kilian is to take over some of the pastry chef responsibilities while you’re out, but there’s no way he could have predicted that. Why would he have taken such a risk? Don’t you think he would have been better off with you remaining in the White House? It would have provided him the opportunity to impress you with his knowledge.”
Marcel made a faint noise of agreement. “I cannot explain another’s motivation,” he said after a beat. “Do not expect me to do so.”
“What do you expect me to do?” I wanted to help him, but he was presenting me with little more than speculation and far-out accusations.
Marcel was quiet for a moment. “Let me ask you this, Olivia. What do you believe?”
I thought about it. “I don’t know.”
“Have I ever been a person who fabricates stories, or who seeks attention? Other than for my exemplary creations, that is?”
Marcel could be overly dramatic from time to time, but he didn’t create stories out of whole cloth. “No. That isn’t you.”
“I make two requests of you, Olivia: Find out why this was done to me; and, more important, be careful. There is no telling what else these men are capable of.”
* * *
That night after dinner, Gav swirled the wine in his glass as he listened to me talk. We were seated on the sofa with the television off, the way we did most nights since we’d gotten married. It was a lovely, quiet way to bring our busy days to a close and to decompress as we shared those parts of our lives that the other wasn’t always privy to.
“What?” I asked, after I’d told him about Marcel’s phone call. “You look as though you have something on your mind.”
“I do.” He placed his glass on the low coffee table, then leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. “I’m not liking this,” he said.
“What part?”
“Any of it.” Two small lines formed between his brows and he broke eye contact. “I was comfortable with the thought that Marcel might have been imagining things until this additional information from Sargeant.”
“Tom is not convinced that Marcel was poisoned, but at least he’s agreed to test the chocolate.”
“How soon?”
“No idea. He said he’d send an agent to pick it up.”
Gav scratched the side of his face. “Tom’s PPD isn’t suffering cutbacks the way the rest of government agencies are, but I’m hearing about rampant backlogs and delays just about everywhere else.”
“What are you saying?”
“Even if Tom rushes the testing, he’ll have to go through official channels. I’m not sure how long that will take.” He waved the thought away. “Let’s not worry about that right now.” He sat back to watch me again. “Now that you know that Kilian is under scrutiny from Saardisca, what do you think about Marcel’s allegations?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. “I have no doubt that there was something wrong with the chocolate. The question is, who tainted it? And why? Poisoning Marcel makes absolutely no sense. Why do that? If it were simply to cause mischief, then I have to ask—again—why? They’re our guests here. I wouldn’t think that they would want anything to go wrong during their stay.”
“Keep going,” he said. “Reasoning aloud is he
lpful.”
“The only other possibility I can think of is that the tainted chocolate wasn’t meant for Marcel. That one of the visiting chefs has it in for a colleague.”
“Okay,” he encouraged, “that’s a reasonable theory. Have you noticed any hostility between them?”
“Not really. Yet, there’s a nagging feeling here.” I pointed inward. “Something is wrong with these visitors. I can’t put my finger on it.”
He listened, deep in thought. I waited. Finally, he broke the silence and looked up. “You know I have great respect for Tom. He’s in a tough spot these days, what with the government sequester and zero room for error where security is concerned.”
I leaned forward. “So you think I should chalk all this up to a sequence of unfortunate events?”
His eyes narrowed. “Here’s the thing, Ollie. There’s one very important variable we have to consider.”
“And what’s that?”
He pointed to me. “You don’t rush to judgment. You’re not hysterical. You have an eye and ear—a sense—for when things aren’t quite right. The way you believe Marcel when he insists the chocolate was tainted, is the same way I feel hearing you. If you tell me that you sense something is wrong, then I know it is.”
Gav’s grave look of concern and his unwavering faith in me made my heart skip a beat. He never shut me down, never told me I was being foolish. Quite the contrary: He actually encouraged my curiosity. I’d hoped that once we’d settled down, we wouldn’t have to deal with criminal or conspiratorial issues anymore. But given our jobs, I supposed there were hundreds of things going on around us every day that I was unaware of. I should be grateful that we only became involved in the few we did.
“What do you suggest?”
His lips tightened. “That’s a tough one. It’s virtually impossible to investigate these chefs personally. The government of Saardisca isn’t about to send you birth-to-present-day dossiers on their citizens, just because you ask nicely.”
“I asked Sargeant about that after our most recent meeting with Tom.” I shook my head. “We’ve gotten all the information we’re going to get.”
“Where is Marcel’s chocolate right now?”
“I put it in the kitchen refrigeration room for safekeeping—behind a bin of vegetables. No one ought to dig that deeply into cold storage unless they’re looking for it.”
Gav rubbed his jaw. “I might be able to pull a few strings.”
“You mean, have it tested? Independently?”
“We can send out two samples. Give half to Tom, the other half to me.”
“That would be fabulous.”
He gave a self-deprecating grin. “I’ve made a few friends in forensics labs over the years. I’m sure I can coerce one of them to help us out here. And because I’ll be working outside official channels, there’s a chance I can get this done a little bit faster.”
“You are, without a doubt, the most thoughtful husband on the planet.”
“All I’m doing is offering to help my wife.”
I got a little tingle of joy every time he referred to me as his wife. Leaning forward, I wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him close. “You know that flowers, candy, and jewelry don’t make me swoon. But ooh, when you whisper words like forensics, I get goose bumps.” I leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips.
“No doubt about it,” he said when I sat back. “I’ve still got the touch.”
That settled, I took another sip of my wine and studied Gav. My husband. It had taken me a little while to get used to that label, and the first time Gav had introduced me as his wife had taken me off guard. Still so new.
He’d picked up his glass and seemed to be memorizing it. The man hadn’t swirled his wine this much in a long time.
I leaned toward him, placing a hand on his forearm. “You’ve been wonderful at listening to my troubles at work. But I can tell there’s more on your mind.”
He looked up. What did I read there? Relief? Worry? A combination?
“Is it Bill and Erma?” I asked. “Is he worse off than we first thought?”
Gav shook his head. “His prognosis is good. Erma is convinced that as long as he takes it easy and follows doctors’ orders, he’ll be back to normal in no time.”
“Will he follow orders?”
Gav made a so-so face. “If he were on his own, no. But Erma will make sure he toes the line.”
“Then what is it?” I asked. “You may as well tell me because you know I won’t give up until I get answers.”
That garnered me a half-grin. “I do want to talk to you about this, but I’m having a difficult time finding the words.”
This sounded serious. When I leaned back, he reached over and placed a warm hand on my knee.
“Sorry. I’m going about this all wrong. It is about Bill and Erma, but not in the way you might imagine.”
“Then tell me,” I said. “No need to watch your words. It’s me, remember?”
He flashed that half-grin again.
Gav refilled both our glasses and then held the bottle aloft.
“Do you like this wine?” he asked.
He turned the label to face me, but I already knew what we were drinking: a lush cabernet from Spencer’s Vineyards. It had been one of several bottles Erma and Bill had given us when we’d visited their winery several months back.
“I love it,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed every one of their wines.”
“How much do you love it?”
“I don’t understand.”
He took a deep breath. Replacing the bottle on the table, he turned to me. His face was devoid of expression; he’d adopted his “agent demeanor.” Different from his mood when he simply needed time, this side of him was impenetrable. Unyielding. I knew he was capable of assuming his hardline persona at any time, but I didn’t expect him to do so with me. Not anymore.
Before he could speak again, I interrupted. “What is going on? What are you so afraid to tell me?”
I thought I detected a crack in his armor, but in a flash it was gone. Whatever he’d been about to say, he clearly didn’t want me to read the emotion behind it. I envied him the ability to close that part of himself off, but I was miffed that he was doing it.
“Gav.” My voice was a warning to him. “We’re in this together, remember?”
My words hit some invisible target.
“That’s what makes this so difficult,” he said, shutting his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, he pulled in another deep breath, solidifying his resolve. The steel-faced agent was back. “Bill and Erma,” he began slowly, “want me to take over the winery.”
I don’t know what I’d expected him to say, but it certainly wasn’t that.
“Take over?” I repeated. “You mean while Bill is recovering?”
“No.” He continued to stare at me, and I realized how much I pitied suspects forced to endure Gav’s interrogations. If I hadn’t known him, I would have been terrified. It was clear he was waiting to gauge my reaction before sharing his own.
“Then what?” I asked.
“Jenny was Bill and Erma’s only child,” he said, referring to his former fiancée, the young woman who had been murdered shortly before they could be wed. “I’m the closest thing to a son they’ve ever had. They want to leave their vineyard to me. To us,” he added with a nod.
My jaw went slack and my mouth opened. I said the first thing that came to mind. “But their vineyard is hours away. How would you commute?”
He took to swirling his wineglass again. “That’s the problem. I couldn’t.”
Like a swarm of ideas condensing together to create a whole, I felt a cloud forming in my brain. A storm cloud. “You would give up your work in the Secret Service?” I asked. I was shocked and taken aback, and not certain what to do with all the thoughts ricocheting in my brain. “Is that what you want?”
Gav rubbed his face with his free hand, and in that instant, agen
t Gav dissolved, and my caring husband was back. “I don’t know what I want,” he said. “But before I can even consider it, I need to know what you think about all this.”
“I . . . I . . .” Speechless, because I had no idea how to answer, I stopped trying. “When would this take place?”
“They were planning to have this talk with me a few years from now,” he said. “But Bill’s stroke changed their timeline. They don’t expect me—expect us—to drop our lives here and move there immediately. They want us to take our time and think about it.”
I tried to digest without panicking. “That would mean me leaving the White House.”
“There may be options we’re unaware of.”
“Like what?”
“Erma and Bill employ a good group of workers, people they trust. There may be an extended period of time where I wouldn’t have to be there at all. And don’t forget, Bill and Erma don’t plan to retire yet. They fully intend to keep working there and to keep running the place themselves for years to come.”
“But they want to know now if you’re willing.”
Gav nodded, but said nothing.
My mind raced. “What did you tell them?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “They knew I needed to talk with you, first.”
I nodded, buying time. We’d been married less than six months. Wasn’t this the sort of major upheaval that cropped up after the first anniversary? Not that major changes respected timetables, of course.
The biggest question hung between us. “What do you want?” I asked. “I mean, if you’re bringing this up in this way, you must be considering it.”
He frowned, but nodded. “It’s not my nature to reject an opportunity out of hand. I need to at least consider what this means.”
“I thought you were already where you always wanted to be. You told me that you’d turned down other opportunities because working with the Secret Service in the capacity that you do is what you’ve always wanted.”
“It is.”
“You’d give that up?” I couldn’t help it. Silently, my selfish side asked, “And you’d be asking me to give my career up, too?”
