by Julie Hyzy
“I don’t know,” he said as I placed the recorder into the holder.
Designed to snug around the edges of a cell phone, it featured small Velcro tabs that allowed me to adjust the width with some degree of precision. The recorder, however, was too tall.
“I have a backup plan,” I said, pulling out a rubber band from my pocket. I affixed it around the recorder and the back of the holder frame. “Can you tell that I worked on this a little bit at home last night?”
“I don’t know,” Bucky said again.
I removed my smock long enough to wrap the band around the upper portion of my left arm. I tucked the short sleeve of my shirt behind the top of the device, to add stability. Gingerly, I donned my smock again, its sleeves wide enough to easily conceal the fact that I was wearing the mechanical device underneath.
“See?” I turned side to side. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s perched a little precariously.”
“So do I,” I admitted, “but I need to be able to turn it on without digging into my pants pockets, or fudging at my belt. That, I think, would be a dead giveaway.”
“Try turning it on,” he said.
I reached over with my right hand as though pretending to scratch my left arm. I felt for the small nub of a button and flicked it on.
“You really have been practicing,” Bucky said with approval.
“I’ll need to be careful not to move this arm too quickly. But I think it’s solid enough to withstand a day in the kitchen, don’t you?”
“You’re the ace detective here, not me.”
“Ha-ha.”
“By the way, is the Secret Service in on this little caper?”
I opened the oven to check on the family’s breakfast casserole. “I had to tell Tom about it, because I needed to get Stephanie’s contact information from him.”
“And he’s allowing you to do this?”
I kept one eye on the doorway, in case the Saardiscans showed up soon. “‘Allowing’ isn’t exactly the term I’d use. He can’t grant permission, but he stopped short of forbidding me from trying.”
“More power to you, then,” he said. “I swear, you’ve become a force to be reckoned with in this place.”
I had to chuckle. “Don’t tell the Secret Service that.”
“What? You think they don’t already know?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “And what about Stephanie? Is she in?”
“Yep.” I pulled the casserole out. “She’s on another assignment today—nothing to do with Saardisca—and won’t be available until late. I’m going to her house after work so that she can translate whatever I manage to catch today.” I placed the steaming dish on one of the stovetop burners. “If Gav gets me the better equipment, I’ll be able to simply upload and e-mail the recordings to her. Ah, the wonders of the Internet,” I said. Tapping my arm, I added, “For today, however, I’m limited to twentieth-century technology.”
“You don’t waste any time.”
“I already feel as though they’ve been here too long. Too many oddball happenings since they arrived. Yet there’s no way to blame any one of them. I’m hoping to find out what’s really going on.”
“And if there’s nothing?”
I shrugged. “Then I’m wrong.”
Bucky passed me the first of the family’s plates. “Which you usually aren’t.”
We finished preparing breakfast just as the butlers arrived.
“Thanks, Jackson,” I said as the head butler covered the dishes and placed them on the serving cart.
When Bucky and I were alone again, I lowered my voice. “I’ll need you to pull Cleto out of the kitchen from time to time. The rest of them know better than to drop into their native language around him.”
“You got it, boss,” he said.
Ten minutes later, our visiting chefs and Cleto arrived. “Good morning,” I said to them. To Bucky, I whispered, “Here we go.”
We spent the first hour or so going over plans for lunch and organizing ourselves for Kerry Freiberg’s visit. The menu had been set, the ingredients identified, and we now waited for the Secret Service to procure all the particulars on our list of supplies so we could get started on preparation. Some grocery items would arrive tomorrow, with the bulk of our needs coming the following day. A few last-minute items would be flown in fresh the day of the dinner itself. With the lion’s share of our tasks identified and settled, the only thing left to worry about was dessert.
I glanced at the clock. Marcel said he’d be here this morning. I hoped he’d show up soon.
“We were very sorry that the chefs were unable to meet with Kerry Freiberg during her first visit here,” I said to Cleto, “but we’re delighted to be able to entertain all of you as our guests when she returns. Are you taking Kilian’s place at dinner?”
“I hope so,” he said, bobbing his head with enthusiasm. “It is a shame the way it came about, but I would be honored to be invited to dine with our esteemed candidate. I have been wishing to meet her since her candidacy was announced.”
“I’m sure she would be pleased to meet you as well.”
“We all hope to make a favorable impression on her,” Cleto said. He didn’t see Tibor scowling behind his back.
Marcel came around the corner. “Bonjour,” he said, with a wide smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I am so happy to be returned to my favorite home away from home. Have you missed me, mes amis?”
I crossed the room to give him a hug, being careful not to smash his broken arm, telling him that he had, indeed, been missed. Bucky laid a gentle hand on Marcel’s back. “Good to see you, sport,” he said. “The place hasn’t been the same without you.”
When Marcel had been informed about Kilian’s death, he’d called me at home to tell me that just because the man had died, it didn’t prove his innocence. Although Marcel had agreed to return to the pastry kitchen, he warned me that he’d be watching the remaining Saardiscans’ every move.
Once we’d finished catching up with our most welcome pastry chef, conversation naturally turned to the Freiberg dinner at Blair House. Even though Nate and Hector were the two Saardiscans most likely to speak in their native tongue, today’s schedule (at least, the most recent iteration) called for Bucky to work in the pastry kitchen with the two of them this morning. I couldn’t come up with a plausible reason to impose a change on such short notice, especially since the three of them had identified specific tasks they planned to accomplish up there. Bucky would do his best to keep them speaking English, and at our earliest opportunity, he’d hand that pair off to me and pull Cleto and Tibor upstairs.
In the meantime, I’d keep tabs on Hector and Nate, and tape them if need be. Although Cleto had originally insisted that everyone keep to English while we worked together, he occasionally forgot himself and lapsed into Saardiscan to address his men. Every time he did so, he made a big display of apologizing to me and to Bucky, assuring us it wouldn’t happen again.
With Nate and Hector out of the room, I handed the Blair House notes to Marcel and told him I’d be right back. I scurried into the refrigeration area, where I double-checked the stability and positioning of the recorder one final time, then turned it on. I returned to find Cleto and Tibor deep in discussion—speaking in Saardiscan. My excitement level skyrocketed.
Marcel, for his part, kept busy scanning the documents I’d provided, using the fingers of his uninjured hand to flip pages as he diligently went over details. Now and then he’d pick up a pen and scribble a note, having to lean awkwardly on the sheets as he did so, in order to write one-handed. With any luck his tasks would keep him quiet for as long as Cleto and Tibor talked.
The tension between the two men was palpable. Tibor’s scowl was as pronounced as it ever was; his back was rigid and straight, while Cleto regarded the angry chef with what appeared to be amused disdain.
I held my breath as their quiet conversation grew more animated, but they paid me little attention. Less
than five minutes later, both men fell silent. Tibor flexed his jaw. Cleto arched a brow.
“I gather from these notes that I have a magnificent dessert to create and mere days in which to do it,” Marcel said.
Perfect timing. “Are you up for the challenge?”
He tapped his temple with the fingertips of his free hand. “Good thing I continued to dream up ideas while I convalesced.” Using that same hand, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a stash of papers, which had been folded into quarters. “I have a wonderful plan for a centerpiece of orange poppies.”
“Poppies are the flower of the southern province,” Cleto said. “And Kerry Freiberg is from that province. He turned to make eye contact with me. “Is he saying that the dessert will resemble an orange poppy? Is that possible?”
“He is, indeed.” I couldn’t have asked for a better opening. “Marcel, I think Cleto is overdue for a visit to your pastry kitchen. He hasn’t had a chance to see all your fabulous creations.”
“Of course.” Marcel’s eyes lit up. “I will need to begin experimenting to achieve my desired results. And the sooner I am able to start, the more likely success will be.” Marcel gestured for Cleto to join him. “Come, I will show you some of my magnificent artistry. We will tell Bucky and the other men that they are to report back down here.”
When Marcel and Cleto were gone, I slyly shut off the recorder. I waited for a while, then decided to engage my companion in conversation.
“Now that we’re getting closer to the dinner for Kerry Freiberg,” I began, “I was wondering if you were beginning to look forward to the event.”
He rolled his eyes. It seemed that no matter what country people hailed from, emotional reactions transcended language barriers. “Why is it important to you to know this?” he asked.
I wanted to ask Tibor if he was always this intractable, or if there was something about me that brought out this special side of him. I was ready to pose that very question, in fact, when Nate and Hector returned. Swallowing my snippy remark, I put forth my best upbeat attitude. “I know from personal experience that as an event gets closer, my enthusiasm level ramps up.”
“Ramps up?” Tibor asked.
“Becomes stronger,” I said, aware that Nate and Hector were watching, clearly curious about what we’d been discussing. Addressing them, I said, “I was asking Tibor about the upcoming dinner with Kerry Freiberg.”
Tibor shook his head with such sustained vehemence that I got the impression he was more concerned with convincing his colleagues that he hadn’t been telling stories out of school than in addressing the question. “I have said this before: We should remain in the kitchen,” he said. “It is not right that we dine at the same table as one of our candidates. We do not belong there.”
“What makes you believe that?” I asked.
“We are workers. We do not belong at a fancy dinner.”
Nate chimed in. “Kerry Freiberg was a worker once, too.”
“She makes people believe she is one of them,” Hector said. “She tells them she will give them a voice.”
“Then I can understand why she’s so popular,” I said, treading carefully. “I would imagine it would be a great opportunity to have dinner with her. A chance to get to know your candidate personally. Not to mention that I’m sure she’ll be very interested to hear how this visit went for you.”
“We should be preparing the dinner, not sitting at the table,” Tibor said again. “It is not my place.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“This candidate is attempting to Westernize Saardisca. She is bringing America’s way of thinking to our people. She tries to make citizens believe that everyone is equal.”
“Aren’t they?” I asked.
Tibor scowled. It was a look I’d grown used to, so much that it didn’t unnerve me anymore. “Of course not.”
Hector and Nate seemed to find Tibor’s outbursts comical. Nate tried to conceal a smile but Tibor noticed. “I should be the chef to help Marcel,” he said with a haughty look at his colleagues. “Kilian was the most accomplished of us all. Now I am at the top.” He stared at all of us in turn, as though daring us to contradict him.
Hector gave him no more than an indifferent glance. Nate continued to smirk.
“I will join them in the pastry kitchen where I will be of most value,” Tibor said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned to me. “If that meets with your approval, that is.”
“Be my guest,” I said, ignoring the condescension in his tone. “Go ahead. I’m sure Marcel will be grateful for the help.”
The moment the cranky chef left the main kitchen to head upstairs, I turned my back to the men on the pretense of checking supplies in one of our cabinets. Once I made sure no one was paying any attention, I flicked the mini recorder back on.
“Bucky,” I exclaimed when I turned back around and found my assistant chef sauntering in, “Tibor just left to go upstairs.”
Bucky hitched a thumb toward the corridor. “I passed him on my way. Perfect timing. Marcel is wrapping up his dessert demonstration for Cleto and is about to get down to serious work.”
“Great,” I said. “We’ve been pretty quiet down here.” That was a complete contradiction, given Tibor’s fiery outburst, but neither Nate nor Hector seemed to care enough to correct me.
Across the central countertop I met Bucky’s curious gaze. He was silently asking me if I’d turned the recorder on. I pulled in a shaky breath and gave the briefest of nods. He winked.
With the device humming against my left arm, I smiled. We were live, once again.
CHAPTER 25
With my fingers crossed and recorder running, all I needed was for our Saardiscan friends to get chatty.
It didn’t take long.
Nate and Hector began slowly. Judging from their cadence and the occasional name they dropped as they spoke, I got the impression that they were discussing Tibor. Whatever they were saying—and after a week I was still too lost to pick up more than moods to help me discern context—led me to believe that neither man was overly fond of the other chef.
We all kept busy with our individual tasks for the day, so the fact that Bucky and I worked in silence apart from them was not something that might arouse suspicion. At least, I hoped not.
When the two men appeared to drop Tibor as a topic, they yakked amiably for a little longer. This time it sounded like they were trading good-natured insults. They eventually lapsed into an extended silence.
When they had been quiet for longer than I could stand, I pulled up one of the planning pages I’d been working on and turned to Bucky. “I’m wondering if you and I should go over to Blair House today rather than wait. I’m really itching to get a closer look at the kitchen.”
Hector and Nate glanced up at me when I mentioned Blair House, but otherwise didn’t seem interested in our conversation.
“Sounds like a good idea,” Bucky said. “You never know what surprises there are in store.”
“We don’t need any more surprises,” I agreed. “The sooner we have a handle on all aspects of this event, the better we can deal with last-minute changes.” Looking over at Nate and Hector, I added, “Believe it or not, all these updates aren’t unusual for us. We’re used to working around constantly shifting plans.”
“This week has been normal?” Nate asked, aghast.
I hastened to clarify. “I’m talking about dinner plans. Marcel’s and Hector’s fainting spells, and Kilian’s collapse are not normal in the least.” I tightened my eyes. “Poor Kilian. I know he would have created a wonderful dessert with a traditional Saardiscan flair to it. I’m sorry he never had the chance to show us the depth of his talent.”
Hector kept his head down. “Kilian was a good teacher. I am sorry, too. He should have been more careful.”
“Careful?” I asked. “What do you mean by that?”
Nate patted his stomach, then answered, “You saw Kilian. He did not pay attention
to what was good for him.”
“There are a lot of overweight people in the world,” Bucky said. “Kilian didn’t strike me as a particularly sickly person.”
Nate shook his head solemnly. “Many graves are filled with people who have much forewarning of death. Kilian was one of the most unfortunate who did not pay attention that he was in trouble.” Shrugging, he finished with, “I am sorry he is gone, too, but Kilian has only himself to blame.”
“From what I’ve heard, he had some heart issues,” I said. “Is that what you’re talking about?”
Nate, who had been the quietest of the bunch since the chefs had first arrived in our kitchen, seemed to be embarrassed to find himself thrust in the limelight. “It no longer matters for Kilian, does it?”
The kitchen grew quiet after that discussion. Bucky worked at his end of the room and I at mine, with Nate and Hector across from me. My goal, originally, had been to bring up Kilian’s name in conversation, hoping that would spur a discussion between the two Saardiscans in their native language. I wanted to know, once and for all, if they had any knowledge of—or even suspected—foul play.
I returned to working on the spreadsheets, hoping the two men would pick up the thread of conversation.
They both watched me for longer than I would have expected. From time to time I looked up, making eye contact and smiling. They kept working as they watched, and in what seemed to be an unspoken agreement, Hector turned to Nate and asked him something in Saardiscan.
I didn’t even look up. I could tell from the faint trembling against my arm that my mini tape recorder was still running. It took all my willpower not to hold my breath as Nate answered Hector with a harsh rebuke. Hector made apologetic noises.
A moment later, Nate started the conversation again, this time calmly, in a voice that was so low I feared the recorder might not catch it.
In an effort not to listen, I strove with all my might to keep my movements and body language communicating oblivious indifference. I also did my best to work as silently as possible, recognizing that noises I made near the machine could risk drowning the men’s conversation out when we finally listened in.
