by Julie Hyzy
“Are we cooking for her, too?”
“No; I inquired about that. Apparently she’s on a fairly strict regimen and Ms. Freiberg’s assistants have Frosty’s needs covered.”
The man led us past two staircases and through a number of back corridors, narrating all the way, providing glimpses into many of the home’s opulent rooms, explaining shortcuts and instructing us which doors led where, and which should remain closed at all times.
“How long did it take you to learn how to navigate this place?” I asked him.
He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “It isn’t so difficult once you understand how the four individual buildings were ultimately connected to form one large home. I’m sure that once you spent a couple of days here, you would have no trouble at all.”
As we continued on our tour, I peered out a window that provided a view of the garden courtyard. It was a welcoming space featuring fountains, expertly trimmed shrubbery, and dotted with benches and wrought-iron seats.
“Gorgeous,” I said.
Our guide took a slight left into a wide corridor on the main level. “The kitchen is directly to your left, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. We will explore that in a moment.” Pointing to our right, he indicated a very long, narrow hallway. “This leads to the dining room we will be using, as you can see through the swinging door at the far end.”
Bucky, Cyan, and I peered down the long, darkened area into the fraction of brightness ahead. I couldn’t make out much beyond what looked like federal-blue print draperies, ivory walls, and two Chippendale-style chairs flanking a sideboard.
I remembered the floor plan from last night. “There is also access to the outside down this hallway, isn’t there?”
He nodded. “You have done your homework. Yes, this corridor provides access to a small parlor as well as to the main gathering area, where the president will be entertaining his guests tonight. In addition to having access to this corridor, the two rooms are connected to one other. They’re not, however, connected to the dining room itself.”
I thought back to the floor plan I’d studied last night. I could picture exactly the area he was describing.
“I assume this corridor gets pretty busy during meals themselves,” Bucky said, “with the butlers traveling back and forth.”
“During the day, yes.” The house manager chuckled. “But once an event begins, quite the opposite. When utilizing the rooms that have been chosen for tonight’s soiree, our staff stays clear so as not to get in the way of our guests. Butlers take a more roundabout path when delivering meals.”
“That seems an odd decision.”
He smiled. “If we had more time, I’d give you a more in-depth tour. Once you saw the space, you’d understand how well this works for us.”
I thought about how often we staged courses in the Family Dining Room on the White House’s first floor, even though the Butler’s Pantry might seem the more logical choice. I agreed with the house manager: The best choices were not always the obvious ones.
“Makes sense,” I said.
I counted three doors on the left side, so I wasn’t surprised when he added, “Between them is a guest bathroom. Because there are several other lavatories available and because they are somewhat distanced from where guests will be mingling, this one doesn’t get used as often as the others.” Gesturing to the other side of the long throughway, he pointed to the single door centered there. “On the right is a mudroom with a door that leads to the courtyard. There is also access to another staff stairway.”
“Lots of doors,” Cyan said.
“As I said, this structure is the amalgamation of four individual homes. It has its quirks.” He waved toward the lone door down the hall on the right. “That exit is generally not open to guests of the home. Tonight, however, one of Ms. Freiberg’s assistants will avail herself of the back door whenever the pet needs to be taken out. Of course, the stairway will also be open to all of you, if you need to travel between kitchens.”
We would be working in the home’s “hot” kitchen. Marcel would be working in the smaller, “cold” kitchen, one floor below.
The house manager had remained in the wide corridor during his explanation and now gestured to our left. “Speaking of kitchens,” he said, “welcome to your home for the evening.”
“Wow,” Cyan said as the three of us spread out. “It’s so modern, compared to the rest of the house.”
Exactly as I remembered from an earlier visit, the spacious, windowless room boasted long walls of warm wooden cabinetry, an unforgiving stone tile floor, and a huge center island with a cream-colored marble surface, providing a perfect expanse for organizing ourselves. There was plenty of oven space, but the sink was relatively small, as was the cooktop.
“Not a lot of personality in here,” Bucky said. “Everything is beige and brown.”
I knew he was making an observation, not voicing a criticism, but the house manager’s mouth turned down. “The home is designed for the comfort of the president’s guests,” he said. “Not for that of the staff.”
Bucky murmured something along the lines of, “Oh yes, of course,” but as he turned his back to the man, he stretched his chin and raised his brows, making a face that said “Whoops!”
* * *
Dinner was to be served at seven, and by six o’clock we were precisely where we needed to be. The citrusy smell that had met us when we’d first arrived, and that still lingered ever so slightly in the long hallway across from us, had been replaced by the savory aroma of roasting meat.
A Secret Service agent had been positioned nearby to prevent unauthorized persons from entering the kitchen. Several members of the Blair House staff had visited to introduce themselves, but for the most part we’d been left alone, which is how we preferred things.
The kitchen’s position directly across the staff hallway, however, meant that I’d been distracted by movement all day. Butlers and assistants scurried back and forth, setting the table and preparing for guests.
Despite the fact that I was immersed in preparations of my own, I’d found myself glancing up every time a person entered that far hallway, or crossed my line of sight. I envied Bucky and Cyan, who had been able to tune out the activity far better than I had.
As was my habit before an important dinner, I’d imagined every step of the process in advance. Now, standing with my back to the stovetop, I took a quick look around the kitchen, reassured to see the meal progressing as planned.
Cyan was putting finishing touches on the salads. “Cyan, how soon does the roast come out of the oven?” I asked.
“Twenty minutes,” she said with a quick glance at the clock. “I checked the temperature before you asked. Looks to be right on schedule.”
“Fabulous,” I said.
From the other side of the kitchen island, Bucky added, “Marcel called from downstairs. He wants us to let him know when the first course is served so that he can gauge when to bring his poppies up here.”
“Got it,” I said. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Believe it or not, after all we’ve been through, it looks like we’re going to pull this dinner off without a hitch.”
The house manager appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking slightly agitated. “Chef Paras,” he began, “there has been a change for dinner this evening.”
“Change?” This came mere seconds after I’d predicted success. When would I learn? “What’s wrong?” I asked.
Cyan and Bucky stiffened, waiting for the worst.
“Nothing is wrong,” he said, quickly. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s just that this change has a bit of a ripple effect on the evening’s agenda, and I will need to discuss alternatives with the photographer.”
“And the change is?” I prompted. I wanted to hurry the man along. Unless he was about to tell us that dinner was canceled, we had work to do. We were getting into crunch time.
“One of the guests, a gentleman you are acquainted with,” he said, “by the name
of Tibor . . .”
“Yes?” Come on, guy. Spit it out.
“He will not be in attendance this evening after all.”
My mouth dropped open. I closed it quickly. “Do you know why?”
He slid a sideways glance toward the front of the home, where the president and guests were enjoying pre-dinner cocktails and passed hors d’oeuvres. “There was some excitement, initially, because another gentleman arrived in Mr. Tibor’s place, to deliver the regrets.”
“Cleto?” I asked.
“I didn’t catch the man’s name,” he said, “but he is, apparently, a member of the Saardiscan contingent.”
“It is Cleto, then,” I said. “Did he give any reason for Tibor’s absence?”
“I was not informed. In any event, I wanted to let you know that dinner is now for thirteen.”
“Thank you,” I said. When he left I turned to Bucky and Cyan. “I wonder if Cleto discovered Tibor planning something and forbid him to come tonight?”
Bucky frowned. “You said yourself you don’t believe Tibor was in on the plot to harm Kerry Freiberg.”
“I’ve been wrong before.”
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a young woman emerging from the single door at the center of the long hallway. I didn’t recognize her and she wasn’t dressed like one of the servers or staff. I stepped forward, around the center island, to get a closer look. It was then I noticed that she was accompanied by Frosty, on a leash.
The young woman was no more than twenty, pale-skinned, heavy at the bust and hips, with a pixie cut the color of dark chocolate. I didn’t hear her words, but could tell that she was cooing gently to the small dog, urging the pooch along. A moment later, she disappeared through one of the doors on the left, presumably to return to the party.
Cyan drew my attention back to the kitchen when she said, “I thought you both told me that this Tibor didn’t want to be here tonight. Sounds to me like he was planning to duck out of this dinner all along.”
I explained to her, as I had to Gav the night before, that Tibor didn’t strike me as the type to say one thing and do another. “He wasn’t thrilled to be invited, but he had every intention of being here. I can’t help but believe that there’s more going on that Cleto has opted not to share.”
“After tonight it won’t matter,” Bucky reminded me. “Tomorrow, they’re all flying home to Saardisca. And good riddance to the lot, I say.”
“I can’t wait,” I said, with a despondent nod toward Cyan, “although that also means the sequester guidelines will be back in force.”
“I’ll be okay,” Cyan said with forced cheer.
“Any prospects on the horizon?” Bucky asked.
“Nothing that excites me. Not yet. But it’s early. And I have enough savings to carry me for a few months.”
“Let’s hope they put an end to this well before then.”
Ten minutes later, the house manager returned. “Another change,” he said with a smile. “We are serving fourteen after all.”
“Tibor showed up?”
He shook his head. “The gentleman who conveyed Mr. Tibor’s regrets was invited to remain for dinner in his stead.”
“But,” I sputtered, “but . . .”
“I discreetly inquired as to any dietary concerns you might need to be aware of, and you’ll be happy to know that our new guest has no food allergies or specialized requirements.”
“How did that come about?” I asked. “Who invited him to stay?”
“Apparently, when Cleto showed up to deliver Tibor’s regrets, the agents notified the president immediately. He, in turn, relayed the information to Ms. Freiberg. I believe it was she who made the request for Cleto to join them for dinner. Caused no small amount of commotion, as you might imagine,” he said. “Ms. Freiberg said she was sorry that Tibor wasn’t able to make it, but that she would be happy to have this gentleman take his place.”
At that moment, Gav showed up in the kitchen. The house manager, having delivered his message, disappeared.
“What’s going on?” I asked, aware of the apprehension in my voice. I welcomed Gav’s sturdy presence, even as I sought to make sense of recent changes. “How did this come about?”
He didn’t waste words. “The decision was made to invite Cleto to stay. I strongly advised against it, but the agent in charge overrode me. As you know, the Saardiscan candidate’s platform is one of inclusiveness, and she insisted. The secretary of state is eager to make nice with her, in the event that she’s elected. Cleto was wanded and searched before he was allowed in, so the president gave the okay.”
I didn’t like this last-minute change and I could tell that Gav didn’t, either.
Bucky stepped forward, keeping his voice low. “You’re not suggesting that Tibor skipped out because he’s planning to attack from the outside?” His gaze bounced from me to Gav and back again. “You don’t think he’s got a bomb, do you?”
Gav glared. Bucky backed away.
Drawing a deep breath, Gav calmed himself enough to address Bucky’s concerns. “No one will be able to get close enough to set or detonate a bomb. All agents have been provided Tibor’s description. No one will be allowed within the emergency perimeter we’ve established, and if Tibor attempts to cross it, he will be apprehended.”
“Did Cleto give you a reason for all this?” I asked.
Having fully adopted his agent demeanor, Gav gave a brusque nod. “Cleto told the president that Tibor is feeling unwell and is too fatigued to leave his hotel room.” He sent me a pointed look. “I’ve got to get back. I just wanted you to know what was going on. Keep your eyes and ears open. Let’s hope this is nothing.”
“Wait,” I said, catching Gav by the sleeve of his suit jacket. “Has anyone confirmed Tibor’s story?”
Another abbreviated nod. “Two agents from another team were dispatched to check on him. If he’s there, then we can probably stand down. If not . . .”
He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to.
“Okay,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
That got him to smile, however briefly. “I will.”
CHAPTER 32
The three of us tended to work with a minimum of chatter. Tonight, however, we went far beyond mere quiet. Breathlessly silent, we spoke only when necessary, jumping at every incongruous noise, or the hint of raised voices coming from the front of the house. Most outbursts were accompanied by laughter or a jovial retort. Occasionally a guest would express good cheer by applauding. From time to time, Frosty barked.
My neck was sore from laboring to listen in, and I could tell the strain was taking its toll on my assistants, too.
“This is silly,” Cyan said in a whisper as we began plating the first course. “If there was going to be any trouble, don’t you think it would have happened by now?”
“I’m starting to wonder,” I said. “Not that there’s anything we can do.” To Bucky, I asked, “Did you let Marcel know that we’re beginning to serve?”
His brows jumped. “No,” he said. “Thanks for the reminder. I’ll do that now.” He crossed the room to the phone and picked it up.
The two butlers assigned to serve dinner arrived in the kitchen. The tuxedoed men offered no perfunctory greeting, no smile, nothing.
Bucky called over to me. “The phone to Marcel’s kitchen is busy, believe it or not.”
One of the somber butlers turned to me. “The phone in the cold kitchen has been acting up lately.”
Bucky overheard. “I’ll run down there,” he said. “Won’t take a minute.”
Cyan and I moved quickly, setting up each first-course plate to picture-perfect standards before handing it over to the waiting men. When I asked the butler nearest me how the party was progressing, he informed me that the guests had been seated. No embellishment, no detail. Had this been the White House, I would have been able to wrangle a tidbit or two out of our head butler and his staff.
When we’d fini
shed arranging the final plate, the butler covered it and loaded it onto the serving cart. At the same moment, I glimpsed movement from down the long hallway opposite us. It was Bucky, emerging from the basement doorway. He hurried back into the kitchen, taking up a position to begin plating dinner’s second course.
As the butlers disappeared around the corner to the left—on their roundabout path to the dining room—I asked Bucky, “Everything okay with Marcel?”
“Fine,” he said. “He’s ready to go whenever we’re ready for him.”
* * *
Dinner progressed exactly as it had been designed to. When each course’s plates were returned to the kitchen, we inspected them to see how our offerings had been received. From the looks of the scraps left uneaten by the diners, tonight’s meal had been a rousing success.
The butlers returned to the dining room to clean off the table in preparation for serving dessert. Marcel and his assistant had sent up the poppy centerpieces and petits fours via dumbwaiter, moments ago. The two chefs arrived shortly thereafter and began arranging the masterpieces for presentation to the guests.
I stepped back from the central island to allow them to work more freely. Now, with the tough part behind me, I allowed myself a moment to relax, enjoy, and savor. Bucky and Cyan apparently had the same idea. They leaned against the far wall, chatting quietly.
Movement in the long hallway caught my eye again. The young woman in charge of Frosty made her way toward the center door on my right, her obvious goal to allow the pooch another outside visit during the lull between dinner and dessert. The agent positioned at the mouth of the hallway nodded acknowledgment as she pointed to the back door. I watched her disappear through.
I glanced over at Marcel and his assistant as they bent over their creations, heads together, speaking softly as they reverently positioned each petit four into place. When I turned back toward the long hallway, I was surprised to see Cleto.
The agent stationed at the mouth of the hallway straightened, having noticed the Saardiscan man, who’d just caught sight of me. Cleto waved hello. I waved back.
