by Julie Hyzy
Hail to the Chef
Julie Hyzy
White House executive chef Ollie Paras has to put her own interests on the back burner when a kindly electrician is electrocuted to death, and the First Lady's nephew dies in an apparent suicide less than 24 hours after cleaning shrimp with Ollie. Ollie suspects something fishy is going on. She'll have to watch her back – and find a killer unlikely to be pardoned.
Julie Hyzy
Hail to the Chef
The second book in the White House Chef Mystery series, 2008
For Rene and For Karen
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish I could cook as well as Ollie does, because then I would invite everyone over for a lavish dinner to express my heartfelt gratitude.
Since I can’t do that, my sincere thanks here will have to suffice:
To the wonderful people at Berkley Prime Crime, especially my editor, Natalee Rosenstein; Michelle Vega; Catherine Milne; and Erica Rose. I hope you know how much I appreciate your guidance, help, and support. And to the great folks at Tekno Books: Marty Greenberg, John Helfers, and Denise Little, without whom Ollie would never exist.
When I asked my brother, Paul, how to rig up an electrical charge strong enough to kill a person and possibly destroy the White House, he was delighted to help. He even created a mock-up and patiently explained how to make it work. In the book, Stanley does the same for Ollie. Any errors in that scene, or others, are mine alone.
I read and reread former White House chef Walter Scheib’s book, White House Chef, but there’s no substitute for talking with someone who’s actually been there. I owe a special debt of gratitude to this kind and gracious man who answered my questions about room locations, staff meetings, and certain protocols. Again, any errors are mine.
Thanks to the Southland Scribes, Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Thriller Writers of America for camaraderie and support, and to readers who e-mail to tell me what they think about the newest book. Means a lot to me.
Special thanks to my writing partner, Michael A. Black, whose wise counsel keeps me going and who always has my back.
And, as always, to my family: Curt, Robyn, Sara, and Biz. You guys are the best.
CHAPTER 1
I STOPPED SHORT AT THE DOORWAY TO THE White House solarium. I knew better than to interrupt the First Lady when she was in such deep discussion with her social secretary and the assistant usher. Particularly today. But when Mrs. Campbell saw me, she beckoned me into the top-floor room.
“Ollie, thank goodness,” she said, silencing her two staff members. “Talk to Sean, would you? Persuade him to come to Thanksgiving dinner.”
Seated apart from Mrs. Campbell’s conference, across the expansive room-I’d missed him at first glance-Sean Baxter sprang to his feet. With his sandy blonde hair and boy-next-door good looks, he could have passed for Matt Damon’s younger brother. “Hey,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”
The two staffers had stopped talking long enough to acknowledge my presence with polite smiles. As soon as Sean stood, however, they resumed peppering the First Lady with their requests.
“Mrs. Campbell,” the social secretary said, her voice strained, “if we don’t confirm these last-minute updates today, the final batch of Christmas cards won’t be sent until next week.”
The assistant usher added, “The press will skewer us for slighting these folks.”
Mrs. Campbell nodded. “Then let’s not wait a moment longer. How many-”
Sudden, hard footfalls above us halted all conversation. One breathless instant later, a flash-like black lightning-streaked past the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Though distorted by the sheer curtains, the silhouette was clear. A man. Carrying a high-powered rifle.
Sprinting along the adjacent promenade, the shadow moved at hyper-speed. I barely had time to process his appearance when the gunman burst through the solarium’s outside door, ordering us all into the central hall.
“Move!” he shouted, darting around us to take the point position at the doorway. “Come on!”
His all-black garb and bulletproof vest didn’t scare me. Neither did the gun.
But the look on his face sent prickles of panic tingling down the back of my neck. This was Dennis, one of our rooftop snipers. His words were terse. “Follow me.”
The First Lady stared at him. “But-”
“No time,” he said. “Secret Service agents are on their way up. We have to get you out of here. Now.”
We had been through drills before, so we knew what to do-but the peculiar energy wrapped around this situation made everything seem louder, brighter, scarier. Dennis tensed. He’d slung the rifle onto his back and now gripped a semiautomatic pistol in one hand, and another weaponlike object I didn’t recognize in the other. His head twisted side to side as he walked, the picture of stealth. “Stay close,” he whispered as he stopped to peer around the corner. “Stay low.”
Two suited Secret Service agents joined us in the central hall, using hand signals to shepherd us toward the stairway nearest the music room. Secret Service agents didn’t generally accompany the First Family into the residence. That must be why Dennis had been tagged for getting us out. As one of the many snipers on the rooftop, he was closer to the First Lady’s position than an agent would be.
The moment we entered the stairway, Dennis ran back the way we’d come. The five of us from the solarium tried to be quiet, but our shoes clattered down the steps, just loud enough to mask the thunderous pounding of my heart. I watched our escorts, knowing better than to question, knowing better than to say a word. The two suited men spoke into their hands in low, brusque tones as we made our way to the bottom level of the East Wing. The First Lady, Sean, and I were herded by Agent Kevin Martin. The other two were taken by Agent Klein.
I knew where we were headed. The bunker.
This was no drill.
I started back toward the kitchen. “My staff,” I said. As the White House executive chef, the safety of my people was of paramount importance to me.
Agent Martin shook his head. “We’ve got your people covered, Ollie,” he said, tension making his blue eyes darken.
He hustled us down, deeper into the fortresslike bunker. The enormous tubelike structure, built back when Franklin Delano Roosevelt was president, was purportedly designed to withstand a nuclear blast. Officially known as the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, it had several meeting rooms and conference areas outfitted with televisions, telephones, and communications systems. Sleeping rooms, too. Agent Martin stopped us in front of the first one on the right.
“Get in there. We’ll come back when it’s clear.”
I couldn’t let it go. “Where’s my staff now?”
Before he could answer, Mrs. Campbell interrupted. “Where’s my husband? Is he safe?”
“He’s been evacuated.”
“Is he all right?”
Martin nodded. “Please remain here until you’re given the all-clear.”
“But what-”
“I’m not at liberty to-”
“Agent Martin,” Mrs. Campbell said with more than a little snap. “You will tell me exactly where my husband is. And exactly what’s going on.”
He pursed his lips, shooting a derisive look at Sean. “Only staff members…”
“You can talk in front of Sean,” Mrs. Campbell said. “He’s family. Now, where’s my husband?”
Agent Martin’s jaw flexed. One of our more handsome Secret Service agents, the man was blessed with Irish good looks and rigid determination. With obvious reluctance, he said, “Marine One evacuated the president to Camp David.” He started to move away, but Mrs. Campbell stepped forward, laying her hand on his arm.
“Tell
me why.”
“The president is safe for now,” he said. “But we have reason to suspect an explosive device may be present in the White House.”
I couldn’t decide whether the loudest gasp came from me or Mrs. Campbell. She recovered immediately, however, and nodded, surprisingly cool. “Thank you.”
I had to know. “Who went to Camp David with him?”
Martin fixed me with a meaningful look. “Everyone you would expect.”
I sighed with relief. That meant Tom had been evacuated, too. At least he was safe. “What happens next?” I asked.
He ignored my question. “I’ll be back when I can.”
The armored door closed behind him with a thunk of frightening finality as the three of us turned inward, forming an uncertain triangle. “Where do you think they found a bomb?” I asked.
Mrs. Campbell paced. The room we occupied was small, with a curtained, fake window on its far wall. Lights behind the plastic panes strove for a sunny-day touch, but their cold, blue fluorescence fooled no one. Designed for safety rather than lavish entertaining, the room was nonetheless comfortable with a kitchenette, a set of bunk beds, chairs, recent magazines on the dining table, and cabinets that I assumed were stocked with shelf-stable foods and water. I took a quick peek behind the far door and found a full bathroom. Good. Just in case we were stuck here for a while.
“This may be just a precaution,” the First Lady finally said. “I’m sure there’s no bomb. Perhaps the Secret Service is running an unusual drill.”
Sean asked, “This is an awful lot for just a precaution, isn’t it?”
Neither Mrs. Campbell nor I answered. He was right. The White House and its inhabitants received threats on an almost daily basis. Precautions were taken as a matter of course, but rarely to this extent.
Something occurred to me. “Wasn’t the president conducting meetings in the West Wing today?”
Mrs. Campbell nodded, the lines between her brows deep with worry. “I was originally scheduled to meet Sean in the dining room outside the Oval Office,” she said. “We planned to lunch with Harrison. He hasn’t seen Sean in such a long time.”
“Did you say lunch?” I asked.
Mrs. Campbell waved away my concerns. “I didn’t put it on the schedule, Ollie, because we planned to grab a bite from the White House Mess. But then the president needed to meet with his advisers about this new terrorist threat, and everything shifted. In fact, that’s why I called you up to the solarium-to inquire about getting lunch.” She smiled, but I could tell it was less for my benefit than for her own. “And here we are.”
So they hadn’t eaten yet. In an effort to inject normalcy into our bizarre circumstances, I started opening cabinets, assessing what ingredients I had at hand to play with. “If they evacuated the president to Camp David,” I said, musing, “then the bomb must be located between the Oval Office and here. Otherwise he’d be in the bunker, too.”
Sean pulled a box of cookies from the cabinet’s very top shelf. “Thank God they found it. And that they got him out. You’re right, Ollie. They wouldn’t want to transfer him across the residence. Can you imagine the risk…?” He let the thought linger. I wished he hadn’t.
“I’m certain this is just a precaution,” Mrs. Campbell said again with unnatural brightness. “Any minute now they’ll give us the-”
A high-pitched siren cut off the rest of her words. Loud even through the bunker’s thick walls, the danger signal rang clear. Jolts of fear speared my gut. Above the door, a Mars light undulated-its beacons of red shooting across the room, like an ON AIR signal gone haywire.
When the siren silenced, the intercom crackled. “Do not leave your assigned room… I repeat… do not leave your room. Do not open your door. Wait for further instructions. This is not a drill.”
Sean dropped the box of cookies. The shock in his face was no doubt a mirror of my own. Mrs. Campbell collapsed into one of the chairs, her head in prayerful hands. “Dear God,” she said, “protect us all.”
CHAPTER 2
“I KNOW THAT THIS ISN’T MUCH,” I SAID, AS I placed a thrown-together lunch on the small table, “but we don’t know how long we’ll be here. We need to keep our spirits up.”
“Do you need any help?” Sean asked me.
I shook my head. We’d been sequestered for more than an hour. In that time, one of the Secret Service agents had stopped by long enough to let us know that the purported bomb had been located and disabled by the bomb squad. Before allowing any of us to resume our duties, however, the entire residence would be swept for additional explosives. The special agent requested our patience for the duration.
While we waited, I scrounged. In addition to the bottled water and PowerBars, I’d found a supply of interesting ingredients and freeze-dried packets. What used to be called C-rations were now more appealingly known as MRE-meals ready to eat. Augmenting these were canned foods and a few necessary staples. I went to work.
Less than fifteen minutes later I’d pulled together canned chicken chunks, added a bit of soy sauce, peanut butter, a splash of oil, and a dash of pepper flakes, then heated it all in the microwave, and served it on a bed of microwave-cooked rice.
I’d then drained a can of carrots and bamboo shoots. With a little maple syrup and more soy sauce, I had a serviceable side dish. Next up, three-bean salad-again from a can. Drained and tossed with Italian dressing, it wasn’t half bad. We were ready to serve.
“This is amazing, Ollie,” Mrs. Campbell said as she and Sean sat at the table to enjoy the meal I’d cobbled together. I was used to using fresh vegetables, herbs, and even flowers as garnish. Here I presented a no-frills meal on utilitarian plates. Still, the chicken smelled good. “I can’t believe how wonderful this all looks. You are a miracle worker.”
I thanked her and began cleaning up.
“Aren’t you planning to join us?” she asked.
Just as I opened my mouth to demur, my stomach rumbled its displeasure at the thought of turning down a meal.
Mrs. Campbell laughed. “That settles it. Sit down, Ollie.”
I took the chair to the First Lady’s left, which set me across from Sean. He smiled at me as he popped a forkful of bean salad into his mouth and said, “This is really good.”
Ravenous, I nonetheless managed restraint as I helped myself to some chicken and carrots. Two bites in, I knew I’d done well. In fact, I wished I would’ve written everything down as I’d put it together. White House chefs were always hounded to create cookbooks. I envisioned my future tome with a chapter titled: “Bounty from the Bunker.”
“I wonder when they’ll let us out,” I said with a glance at the room’s digital readout. The White House assistant usher had called a staff meeting for this afternoon. With Thanksgiving only two days away, and holiday decorations going up the day after that, we were already operating under tight deadlines. Every hour delay squeaked the schedule ever tighter. While we ate, I formulated alternative methods to get everything done on time.
As though reading my mind, Mrs. Campbell said, “How are plans for Thanksgiving dinner progressing?”
“Perfectly,” I said. It was true-mostly. I’d taken over the position of executive chef in the spring, and since then I’d come to learn just how difficult it is to manage meals, staff, and administrative responsibilities at the same time. So far, however, plans for Thanksgiving were right on schedule. And they would continue to be, as long as we got out of our bunker prison soon. “Your guests are in for a treat. And Marcel has another spectacular dessert planned.” Just to keep conversation going, I asked, “Are we still planning for six guests in addition to you and the president?”
Mrs. Campbell sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. The rest of my husband’s family won’t be attending this year, so we’ve invited my Washington, D.C., business partners-they’re practically as close to me as cousins. But I have to admit, I was hoping to host a bigger event this year.” She directed a pointed look at Sean. “Thanksgiving is a t
ime for families to be together. Isn’t that right?”
Sean considered the question. “It may be better for me to skip this one, Aunt Elaine.” When he looked up, his eyes were clouded. “You know your partners wouldn’t want me there.”
She leaned toward him and placed a hand over his. “I want you there.” Sitting up, she gave a bright smile. “And Ollie does, too. Don’t you?”
Startled by the apparent non sequitur, I answered, “Of course.”
Sean smiled at me from across the table. “Well, then, maybe I could reconsider.”
My brain skip-stepped. Comprehension struck me-and I could only hope my instantaneous panic didn’t show. If I was reading this interchange correctly-the First Lady was attempting to play Cupid. But she was obviously unaware of my relationship with Secret Service Agent Tom MacKenzie. Although the excitement from last spring might have led people to suspect there was more to our companionship than dodging bullets might warrant, Tom and I chose to keep information about our love life quiet. We leaked details of the relationship on a need-to-know-basis only. And until this moment, I’d decided Mrs. Campbell didn’t need to know.
From the looks on Mrs. Campbell’s and Sean’s faces, however, it was clear the First Lady had designs to fix me up with her nephew. Here was a wrinkle I hadn’t anticipated. At once I was honored that she thought so highly of me-because I knew the esteem she held for Sean-but at the same time I was quietly horrified.
How, I wondered, could I disentangle myself from this particular dilemma without ruining her image of me-and, just as important, without coming clean about my relationship with Tom?
For the moment I could do no better than deflect. I wracked my brain to come up with the Thanksgiving guest list. “The three couples attending are the Volkovs, the Blanchards, and the Hendricksons?”
