All the President’s Menus

by Julie Hyzy

  Cleto stepped through the bathroom door. The agent relaxed.

  Moments later, the young woman returned with Frosty, the little dog pawing and prancing against the constraints of her leash. One second later, Cleto emerged from the washroom across the hall from her. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

  The agent took note of both appearances, but did not abandon his post.

  I watched as Cleto expressed delight at Frosty’s bouncing excitement. To my surprise, he crouched to greet the pup, vigorously rubbing her head and scratching behind her ears, cooing praise loud enough for me to hear.

  This was a man who professed to hating dogs? Or was this elaborate display of affection meant to garner favor with Ms. Freiberg? Although the candidate wasn’t present to witness it personally, her assistant would no doubt convey how kind Cleto had been to little Frosty.

  If that was his goal, Cleto was putting on quite a show. He continued to ruffle the dog’s white coat. He held himself awkwardly, leaning away as he reached. His lips were pressed tight. I remembered his comments about dogs being dirty, and I wondered if he was afraid of getting licked in the face.

  Frosty sneezed, twice.

  Cleto’s coos became ever more ardent and he kept his joyful attention on the dog. He was so effusive, so ceaseless in his devotion, that it got to the point where the young woman grew noticeably uncomfortable. Shifting her weight, she said something to Cleto, then tugged at the animal’s leash. Frosty was having none of it, however, clearly wanting to stay where the petting was good.

  Finally, the woman insisted, convincing Frosty to follow her back into the dining room. Cleto rose to his feet, rubbing his hands together as he did so. Again, he caught me watching, but this time I didn’t wave. We locked eyes across the distance, and he gave a quick smile before disappearing back into the washroom.

  I could have sworn I saw dust dissolve in his wake. A small glittering cloud that poofed and vanished behind him like Tinkerbell’s sparkling trail.

  At the same time, the chatter level increased in the kitchen. Bucky and Cyan heaped compliments while Marcel and his assistant feigned modesty.

  Over the commotion of their conversation, Bucky called to me. “Take a look at the finished product before these are taken out, Ollie.”

  Holding my hand up in a gesture to wait, I didn’t answer, didn’t turn to face the group. The Secret Service agent stationed in the corridor watched me with curiosity.

  When Cleto stepped back into the hallway from the washroom, I called to him.

  The Saardiscan man raised his hand in greeting, then began heading back toward the dining room.

  “Do you have a moment?” I asked, a little louder.

  He turned to face me with a quizzical smile, then started across the expanse between us. The Secret Service agent spoke to us both. “No guests allowed in the kitchen,” he said.

  Cleto stopped mid-stride, raising his hands. Their palms were bright pink, as though chafed from being scrubbed too briskly. Or was I imagining things?

  “Of course,” Cleto said.

  I stepped past the agent into the long hallway.

  “Exquisite dinner, Chef,” Cleto said. “I cannot even begin to express my deep admiration for your talent.” He closed his eyes as though experiencing ultimate bliss. When he opened his eyes again, he pressed his hands together and gave a slight bow. “It has been a pleasure getting to know you.”

  “I’m worried about Tibor,” I said.

  Though he tried to mask it, I didn’t miss the relief that washed over him. As though he’d been confused by my sudden interest in conversing and that my inquiry about Tibor had quelled some inner panic. “I will be sure to let him know of your concern.”

  “After what happened with Kilian,” I said quietly, to make Cleto believe I was sharing a confidence, “I’m especially wary. Are you absolutely certain that Tibor is all right? Shouldn’t someone check on him? After all that’s happened, I’m tempted to suggest that.”

  “Not necessary,” Cleto said. He glanced around the hallway before bringing his lips close to my ears. “I did not want to say this to Ms. Freiberg, because to do so would hurt her feelings. The truth is that Tibor refused to attend tonight’s banquet.”

  “Oh?” I said noncommittally.

  With a moue of distaste, Cleto went on, “You know Tibor well enough to understand. He made no secret of his plan to avoid attending.”

  That wasn’t exactly accurate, but I let him go on.

  Continuing to whisper, he said, “Tibor does not know how to control his anger. We have seen this ourselves. He is angry and spiteful and, because of that, has chosen to turn his back on this invitation.”

  The agent behind me said, “The staff wants me to tell you that dessert is ready to be served,” he said. “All guests should return to the table.”

  Cleto bid me good night. I turned and headed back, not bothering to stop in the kitchen to explain. I gave the Secret Service agent in the hall the most minuscule of updates. “I need to speak with Special Agent Gavin,” I said. “Right now.”

  Whether he knew that Gav and I were married, or simply knew that as a member of the White House staff I was allowed a measure of freedom, he didn’t stop me.

  Happy not to have to fight a battle on that front, I raced around the other way, toward the front of the house. I slowed as I encountered the butlers wheeling Marcel’s gorgeous poppy centerpieces and delectable petits fours. The men and their tray blocked my path, but I decided there was enough clearance to get by. Ignoring their curious glances, I edged past to find myself in what I recognized from its warm vanilla walls and peach furnishings as the Blair Front Drawing Room.

  I didn’t have time to admire the architecture, paintings, or even consider the room’s historic significance. My goal was to get as close as possible to the dinner party while remaining out of sight. From what I recalled of the floor plan, I still had a handful of areas to traverse before I’d even get a glimpse of the guests. Gav, I knew, would be in the room adjacent to that of the diners.

  The agent stationed in the Drawing Room was a fellow I’d met before but didn’t know personally. He held an arm out, blocking my way. “I need to see Special Agent Gavin,” I said. “Immediately.”

  The wheels of the rolling cart gently vibrated the floor as the butlers pulled up behind me.

  “So I understand.” The agent narrowed his eyes. “Why do you need him?”

  Yeah, in ten words or less, right?

  One of the butlers cleared his throat. “May we get by?”

  I twisted to face them. “No.” Thinking fast, I amended, “I mean yes. I intend to accompany you.”

  “Into the dining room?” the nearer butler asked.

  The agent on duty rumbled his displeasure. “That is not part of the program,” he said. “I can’t allow it.” When he spoke into his microphone, I assumed he was connecting with Gav. Good.

  A brilliant thought came to mind. “I’ve been requested to visit the table. By the host.”

  “I thought you said you needed to see Special Agent Gavin.”

  “That’s right,” I said, building on my charade. The lies were piling up. “He’s the one who is supposed to escort me in.”

  The agent spoke quietly into his radio again, then listened to a reply. “I’ll take you in.”

  Gritting my teeth, I politely thanked him.

  I hurried through the rooms pressing ahead, moving as quickly as I could. This house was huge, and even though I remembered the basics of the floor plan, it was like traveling through a maze. In essence we would be making a giant jagged U in our path to the dining room.

  “No, the other way,” one butler whispered when I took a left that should have been a right. I was suddenly grateful for my Secret Service escort. His presence—and the fact that he’d notified them that I was coming—prevented me from having to repeat my story to all the other agents along the way. Each one expressed identical, subtle, looks of surprise, but
made no move to impede our progress.

  “Next right,” the butler behind me whispered.

  I took the turn as instructed, ready to spill my suspicions to Gav.

  He wasn’t there.

  Two other agents, both of whom I’d met before, flanked the doorway to the dining room from where we could hear the sounds of cheerful conversation. The sentry agents waved me to one side, probably to keep me out of the diners’ line of sight.

  I walked up to the agent nearer to me, avoiding being seen. “Where’s Ga—Special Agent Gavin?”

  “Sent away.” His words were clipped, quiet. I got the feeling this guy was the team leader.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  While the butlers sailed in and out of the dining room with the cups, saucers, dessert plates, and silverware needed to properly showcase dessert, two agents discussed the situation. I shifted from foot to foot, clenching and unclenching my fists with growing impatience. I’d been counting on Gav’s support to make this work. Now what?

  “Gavin didn’t leave word . . .” one said.

  “He had more on his mind,” the other answered.

  “Listen,” I said, making it up on the fly, “I made dinner. When a chef is invited to visit the table, it’s because the guests want to offer their appreciation for an exceptional meal.” The meal was exceptional, but I still felt like a conceited fool making the point right now, especially as part of this total fabrication. “If I wait until after dessert is served, the guests will mistakenly believe I was responsible for creating these.” I held my hand out toward the vivid orange poppies and accompanying treats. “That puts the president in the uncomfortable position of having to clarify who made what and it will result in confusion for everyone. Not a happy moment.”

  When had I ever been so glib?

  “So you see,” I concluded, “it’s now or never, and it really is very important that I get the chance to visit the table.”

  The butlers desperately wanted to serve dessert. “We’re keeping our guests waiting,” one of them whispered.

  This room was the Lincoln Room. I knew from history that this was the room where Montgomery Blair had entertained Abraham Lincoln whenever the president visited for their informal chats. This was the room in which Francis Blair, at the request of President Lincoln, had asked Robert E. Lee to lead the Union Army. It was also, presumably, this room, where Lee had turned that position down.

  And it was from this room that I was about to risk a ridiculous gambit that would either save Ms. Freiberg’s life, or ruin both dinner and my career.

  CHAPTER 33

  The one I assumed was the special agent in charge scratched his head. “Fine,” he said with clear exasperation. “But I’m going in there with you. Make it quick.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said. Nerves made me jumpy.

  He cast a glance back at the rest of the group in the Lincoln Room, then stepped through the dining room doorway. All polite chatter ceased at the sight of the large Secret Service agent. He eclipsed me, and it wasn’t until President Hyden broke the surprised silence with the guarded, “Yes?” that the big man stepped to one side, rendering me visible to the entire table.

  In a split second, I noted that President Hyden was at the center of the table on the left, Kerry Freiberg center on the right. Cleto had been placed at the far end, the same side as President Hyden. I could feel the Saardiscan’s blazing eyes on me. That gave me less anxiety than the fact that Ms. Freiberg had Frosty on her lap, where she nuzzled the dog’s head. It was all I could do not to leap across the table to grab the pup.

  “Ollie?” the president said. His expression had morphed from surprised to perplexed in the space of time it had taken me to take another step into the room.

  It had been no more than four seconds since we’d made our entrance, but it was already painfully obvious that I’d been lying about being invited in.

  “President Hyden.” I directed my gaze, my focus, and all my energy toward him. I’d depended on Gav being here, but he wasn’t. It was up to me to effectively make my case to our commander in chief. “May I . . . speak with you a moment?” My voice trembled, high and thin. My knees went soft. I shook.

  The agent loomed behind me, close enough that I could feel his body heat radiating against my back.

  “Ollie,” the president said, addressing me once again, “my guests and I have thoroughly enjoyed this wonderful meal you prepared. Please communicate our appreciation to your staff.” The gathered group offered murmurs of assent but the president watched me closely.

  I flicked a glance toward Cleto, then toward Kerry Freiberg, wishing desperately for the president to know, telepathically, instinctively, what I wanted to convey. What I actually said came out tight and stilted. “Thank you very much. I will be happy to let them know how much you liked it.”

  When I didn’t depart immediately, the other guests began trading uneasy glances. This unexpected interruption clearly made them uncomfortable. President Hyden continued to maintain eye contact with me. I got the feeling he was trying to figure out what was really going on here.

  “Mr. President,” I began again, “before Marcel’s fabulous dessert is served, may I have a moment of your time? Privately?”

  Giggles—poorly muffled ones—skittered around the table. I continued to lock eyes with President Hyden.

  As the president folded his napkin and began to rise, Cleto spoke up. “What is this?” he asked. “In Saardisca, the hired help is never permitted to address our leaders in such a casual manner. How is it in America that you allow such behavior?”

  The president, surprised by the outburst, turned to face the other man, who had now pushed away from the table and risen to his feet as well.

  Cleto bunched his napkin and threw it onto the table. “I thank you for this dinner, but I must now depart.” With a hand on his stomach, he shook his head morosely. “This deficiency of propriety upsets me greatly.”

  “Please, Mr. Damar,” President Hyden said in the diplomatic voice I’d heard him use on many occasions, “I’m sure this disruption is quite important. Chef Paras would not have stepped in here otherwise.”

  Cleto dismissed President Hyden’s assertion with an impudent wave. He started around the far end of the table, making good on his pronouncement to leave, refusing to look at anyone in the room, including me. If I’d had even the slightest doubt about finagling my way in here, Cleto’s reaction put those fears to rest.

  “Mr. Damar,” President Hyden said again.

  Cleto kept his chin high, punctuating his obvious indignation with every furious step.

  I turned to the guest of honor. “Ms. Freiberg,” I said, my voice quivering with effort, “put Frosty on the floor. Get her away from you.”

  The Saardiscan candidate jerked with surprise at being addressed personally. She pulled Frosty closer to her chest, as though to protect the little dog.

  “No, please, you must understand—”

  Three Secret Service agents had gathered around me, huddling close, probably eager to eject me from the premises.

  Cleto had originally begun making his way toward me, as though intending to exit through the front door. The moment I addressed Ms. Freiberg, however, he stopped in his tracks and doubled back. His goal was clear: the swinging door that led to the long hallway. He could disappear and be out of the house through the back exit in no time flat. While there were agents protecting the perimeter and preventing intruders from getting in, there was no guarantee they would apprehend a person exiting the home—especially when that person had been one of the esteemed guests.

  Ignoring the agents’ menacing presence, I pointed toward Cleto. “Stop him,” I said. “Please.” In that same instant, the Saardiscan man made it to the swinging door and pushed through.

  The agents spoke into their microphones, but not one of them moved.

  “You have to trust me,” I said.

  The room had go
ne completely still, like at the end of a stage play when the action freezes—that breathless second before the applause.

  I stared at the president and he at me. No one spoke.

  The stillness was broken by the barest of movements. President Hyden glanced up at the agents and gave a sharp nod. “Do it,” he said.

  With that, one sped off, speaking into his microphone as he raced after Cleto. The other two remained in the room.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” I said. “Cleto has spread something into Frosty’s coat. A poison, or toxin, I think. It’s meant to harm Ms. Freiberg, I’m sure of it. Frosty, too.”

  It took a moment for my words to sink in, but when they did, the assistant who’d been responsible for taking the dog outside jumped out of her chair. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she said something in Saardiscan, which I had to believe was confirmation that Cleto had come in contact with the dog.

  Ms. Freiberg ran a hand along Frosty’s coat, bringing it up for everyone around the table to see. Flecks, like silt, dribbled from her fingertips. She turned to me, alarmed. “What is this?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But it isn’t safe.”

  She pulled Frosty ever closer, protectively, making the little dog wriggle in protest.

  “Please,” I said, “we need to get Frosty to a vet. And you to a medical facility. Maybe everyone to a medical facility.”

  CHAPTER 34

  To characterize the flurry of activity that followed as an exercise in terror would be to minimize its impact on everyone affected. After one of the remaining Secret Service agents consulted his superiors for instructions, all dinner guests, all Blair House staff members, and all of the chefs, including me, were immediately hustled into one room.

  It had been decided to house everyone in the Jackson Place conference room, where we were to be quarantined for an unspecified period of time. Joining us were all the Secret Service agents who’d been on duty in the home as well.