Hail to the Chef

by Julie Hyzy

  With a bouncy little so-so motion of her head, Bindy said, “They’ve had help with the project. The gingerbread men are really beautiful, Ollie. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if they weren’t worthy of presentation.”

  Sure, she wouldn’t. Treyton Blanchard probably thought his kids’ scribbles with a blue crayon were genius. And I knew that if the powerful senator asked Bindy to do something, she’d do it.

  I shuddered inwardly at the thought of what these homemade gingerbread ornaments looked like until Bindy said, “If the kids had actually done all this on their own, they’d be snapped up as protégés.” She laughed. “The family chef did some of the work. He’s amazing.” The spirit with which she added that last remark made me wonder if she and Blanchard’s chef were the new hot item in D.C. I knew the guy. But I couldn’t see them together.

  “And the kids think they did it all themselves?”

  She bit her lip, nodding.

  “I’ll look into it.” I held up my hands, staving off further pressure. “But there’s no guarantee the photographers will snap the right angle to get these in print, you know.”

  Tiny shrug. “I realize that. But I just wanted to ask you to do your best. The kids will be so thrilled. They’ve been invited to the ceremony, too. Their mom’s bringing them. Can you imagine how excited they’ll be to see their artwork in the Red Room of the White House?”

  Realizing I wasn’t going to get back into the kitchen until I gave her something to take back to Blanchard, I said, “I’ll talk with Marcel and the decorating staff. That’s the best I can do.”

  When Bindy smiled, relaxed now, I was taken aback again by the change in her. She’d morphed from ordinary to fabulous in just a few short months. And she seemed to have acquired a new confidence, too. “Thanks,” she said. “It’ll mean a lot to us.”

  She turned and headed for the stairs before I could ask whether “us” meant her and the kids, or her and Treyton Blanchard.

  I STEPPED OUT OF THE KITCHEN FOR THE dozenth time in the last hour. As Jackson passed me in the Center Hall, I grabbed his arm. “Any updates?”

  Headshake. “No word. Nothing.”

  Five minutes before one o’clock and Sean Baxter hadn’t arrived yet. We should have begun staging already.

  “When do you think we’ll be able to serve?” Visions of wilted lettuce, dried-out turkey, and soggy rolls raced through my mind.

  “The First Lady suggested we wait until half past one. If Mr. Baxter still has not arrived, then we will begin without him.”

  A half-hour delay. Not great, but it could be worse. “Okay,” I said, heading back in to deliver the news to my group. “Let me know if anything changes.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, I divided my time between overseeing progress in the kitchen and the Butler’s Pantry upstairs. We staged our offerings in the pantry, waiting impatiently for the signal to serve our guests in the next room. The Family Dining Room occupies a space on the north side of the White House, with the pantry directly west. The State Dining Room-where most of our larger seated dining events are held-is a large area immediately adjacent to both rooms. In fact, we often used the Family Dining Room for staging when serving in the State Dining Room. The three-room setup is perfect whether we’re serving a hundred guests, or fewer than a dozen.

  I maintained a position in the empty State Dining Room, close enough to the gathering to listen and watch without being seen. Although I had every excuse to be there-to gauge how the hors d’oeuvres were going and to determine if I needed to make any last-minute changes to dinner-the real reason I parked myself at the door was pure nosiness. I knew Mrs. Campbell was a strong-minded and resilient woman, but I didn’t know many of our guests. If they were planning on ambushing her, as Sean expected they might, I wanted to help him with information-gathering. I caught Jackson ’s eye. He stood nearby, facing the cross hall. I could tell he and I were on the same page.

  I hadn’t met Nick Volkov before, but I recognized him from the recent news items I’d checked online at Sean’s suggestion. Volkov and his wife had had some trouble lately-involving allegedly bogus land deals, kickbacks, payoffs, and property liens. Volkov was a man-whether guilty or innocent-for whom a windfall would be salvation. No wonder he was pressuring Mrs. Campbell for a quick sale.

  As they chatted and mingled with the other guests, the couple never seemed to lose physical contact with each other-his arm grazed hers his, fingers skimmed her back. Younger than the First Lady by about ten years, Nick was stout and fair, with youthful Eastern European features and a prominent brow. Mrs. Volkov, by contrast, wore her age like a road map. She looked considerably older than her husband and was a little bit hunched. Maybe all the jewelry she wore weighed her down. I hadn’t seen this much sparkle since I passed Tiffany’s in New York City.

  “I don’t understand your reluctance, Elaine,” Nick Volkov said to the First Lady. His voice was even bigger than he was. “The sooner we put your uneasiness behind us, the sooner we can enjoy this blessed Thanksgiving day. Don’t you agree?”

  Mrs. Campbell held her hands together, clasped low. She was the only diner in the room not carrying a glass of wine. “Oh, Nick,” she said, with a touch of reproof, “I’m certainly not reluctant to talk, nor uneasy about my position with the company. I just don’t want to discuss things twice. Why don’t we wait for another opportunity, when both my husband and Sean can be here?”

  I glanced at Jackson again. He shook his head. Sean still hadn’t arrived.

  Volkov lowered his voice. I almost didn’t hear his next words. “If we wait too long, Elaine, we will miss our opportunity. Ten years from now the market may not be as good as it is now.”

  “And in ten years the market may be better,” Mrs. Campbell said smoothly. “In fact, my father counted on that. He didn’t want me to-”

  “Your father didn’t understand how things have changed.”

  “I believe he did.” The First Lady’s lips twitched. “And I certainly do.”

  Volkov’s voice rose. “It comes down to this: We need to act and we need to do so right now.”

  “Nick,” she said, and I caught the impatience in her tone, “once we sell, everything our fathers worked for will be gone. Zendy Industries will belong to others-to people who might take it in a direction we can’t control.”

  “What difference does it make after we’ve been adequately compensated? Our fathers worked hard to provide us with security for our futures. Isn’t this exactly what we’re taking advantage of? Don’t you think they would approve?”

  “I don’t think they would approve, no,” Mrs. Campbell answered. She unclasped her hands and gestured around the room. “I don’t think any of us is financially insecure right now. None of us needs the money-not for any legitimate reason.”

  Nick Volkov’s face reddened.

  He looked ready to say something unpleasant when his wife interrupted. “Where is Sean, anyway?” she asked. “I believe I’ve only met him once before. Such a nice young man.”

  Volkov sniffed. “Too young to understand the subtleties of business.”

  I backed away as Mrs. Campbell glanced toward the open door. “I don’t know. I’m sure he said he was coming.”

  Nick Volkov cleared his throat. “He’s irresponsible, if you ask me.”

  I slid around fast enough to catch Mrs. Campbell’s tight smile. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t ask you, then, isn’t it?” she said. With a pleasant nod to Mrs. Volkov, Mrs. Campbell excused herself to mingle with the other guests.

  Call me Nosy Rosie, but I couldn’t let it go. I continued to watch the interactions in the next room, listening closely to as many conversations as I could. The only people I knew who had the First Lady’s interests at heart were the president and Sean. I hoped to overhear some tidbits of information that I could pass along to Sean later. Again, I wondered where he was. After our conversation yesterday in the kitchen, I couldn’t imagine he would have forgotten the time. But thin
gs happen, and I decided that until he showed up, I was on spy duty.

  Nick Volkov muttered under his breath. I didn’t catch his words, but I couldn’t miss the grimace he made behind the First Lady’s back. Helen Hendrickson didn’t miss it either. Practically sprinting away from Treyton Blanchard’s side, she hurried over to join the Volkovs. Helen Hendrickson was not a small woman, nor a young one. The quick movement left her breathless. “Did she say she’ll sign?” she asked.

  “Hardly,” Nick answered. “She’s unwilling to even entertain conversation until that damn Baxter arrives.” Turning to his wife, he said something else I couldn’t catch. She broke away from him to intercept Fitzgerald, who’d been heading toward them. Mrs. Volkov looped an arm through his and led him away toward the room’s fireplace.

  Helen Hendrickson chewed her thumbnail before addressing Volkov. “What can we do?”

  Cyan came around the corner from the pantry. I walked over to meet her. “Still no news on Sean,” I said, keeping my voice low. Looking at my watch, I added, “Not too much longer before we serve.”

  “I hate this tension,” she said. “Can’t do anything but wait and be nervous. Everything’s ready now.”

  “I know, but we’ve been through worse,” I said.

  She glanced at the open door where I’d been standing. “Anything interesting?”

  “So-so.”

  By the time Cyan returned to the pantry and I made it back to my unobtrusive position at the doorway, Treyton Blanchard had joined Nick Volkov and Helen Hendrickson. It was neat to be part of the wallpaper-seen but not noticed.

  “What good gossip am I missing here?” Blanchard asked. The junior senator from Maryland had a pleasant face, but his natural charisma and wide smile made him seem even more handsome in person than he appeared on camera. “I hope you two haven’t been talking about me.”

  Volkov made a noise. Frustration, it seemed. “We’ve been talking about our… partner.” The way he said it made my skin crawl.

  “Give it time,” Blanchard said.

  “Time?” Again, Volkov grew red-faced. “We don’t have that luxury.”

  Blanchard took a small sip of his wine. “We have time enough,” he said. “Elaine can’t be forced to make a decision without consulting her trusted advisers, can she?”

  Volkov sputtered, “Some trusted adviser. That Baxter fellow can’t even make it to dinner on time. How can we expect him to help her make the right decisions?”

  “I’ll talk with Elaine one-on-one when I get the chance,” Blanchard said. “I think she’s just overwhelmed right now. She’s still grieving for her father…”

  “Her father’s death is what precipitated this decision.”

  Blanchard held his wineglass to almost eye level, gesturing with it for emphasis. “Don’t tell me things I already know, Nick. I understand what’s at stake here. But today is Thanksgiving.” He tempered his admonishment with a smile. “Or have you forgotten that?”

  From the ping-pong movement of her head as the conversation went back and forth, Helen Hendrickson seemed unwilling-or too mousy-to join in. I was surprised when she focused her attention on Blanchard. “Easy for you,” she said. “Nick and I don’t have the benefit of political donations to help us make our dreams come true.”

  Blanchard replied, but I missed it because Jackson was on the move. As he passed me, he whispered, “Showtime.”

  I followed. “Sean Baxter?” I asked.

  He spoke over his shoulder. “Not yet.”

  Within minutes, the guests were seated and we were ready to serve. I had Cyan in the narrow pantry with me and we scrutinized every dish to make certain it was absolutely perfect before one of our tuxedoed butlers carried it into the next room. I heard exclamations of delight as the platters reached the table, and I blew out a breath of relief.

  When the door connecting the pantry to the Family Dining Room was open, I snuck a glance. With the president unavailable, the First Lady had taken her seat at the head of the table. Treyton Blanchard sat to her right, Bindy Gerhardt across from him. The Volkovs sat across from each other, too, with Nick next to Bindy. The male-female pattern continued with Helen Hendrickson next to Nick. Helen’s guest, the elderly Mr. Fitzgerald, had settled himself across from her. Only the seat across from the First Lady was unoccupied.

  As he passed me on his way back into the pantry, Jackson said, “We will seat Mr. Baxter when he arrives.” A shrug. “If he arrives at all.”

  Cyan came close, whispering, “Do you think maybe Sean is with the president? I mean, that’s his uncle. Maybe whatever’s keeping President Campbell is-”

  I shushed her. The other room had silenced. No conversation. No movement. Rather than push the connecting door open to peek, I hurried around into the State Dining Room where I could peer in unnoticed. I wondered if something was wrong with the meal. What could possibly have happened to stop everything so completely? I strained to hear, and was rewarded only by the flat-toned words from a voice I didn’t recognize.

  In a moment, I understood. Two Secret Service agents had positioned themselves inside the Family Dining Room. One of them had apparently requested Mrs. Campbell’s presence away from her guests. I slowed to a stroll as I made my way across the expansive room, hoping I appeared nonchalant. Pretending I was heading into the hall.

  Mrs. Campbell emerged just as I crossed her path. She’d been about to address the taller of the two agents, but stopped me with a hand to my arm. “Ollie,” she said, “dinner is wonderful. I-”

  “Mrs. Campbell,” the agent said. He touched her elbow in an effort to guide her toward the doorway to the Red Room. “Please.”

  She didn’t move. “What happened?”

  Both agents glared at me, making me want to shrink and run, but the First Lady gripped my arm, effectively freezing me in place.

  She blinked rapidly, then took a steadying breath. “Is it my husband?”

  “No,” the shorter agent said quickly. “The president is safe.”

  “Thank God.” Her grasp loosened, but she didn’t completely let go. “Then what is it?” she asked the agents.

  The taller one cleared his throat. “Ma’am, perhaps it would be better for you to come with us to the residence.”

  “No.” Mrs. Campbell’s jaw flexed. “Just… tell… me.”

  The agents exchanged glances.

  She gripped me again. “Agent Teska, if you don’t tell me what’s going on-”

  The thought hung there a long moment.

  “With the president tied up in negotiations… we thought it best to talk to you first.” The urgency in his face settled into the dispassionate expression that always heralds bad news. We waited. I barely breathed.

  “There’s been an incident,” Teska finally said. “Please, ma’am. If you’ll come with me…”

  Her face was tight. Her voice even tighter. “Just tell me.”

  “It’s Sean Baxter, ma’am. He’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE FIRST LADY MANAGED TO FIND HER WAY back to her chair in the dining room, waving away those of us trying to help her. She sat for a long time, eyes covered, head down.

  There was no recovering from news like this-not surrounded by colleagues who had planned to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner and who all now sat, staring. Doing the best they could, Secret Service agents quietly ushered the guests out to waiting limousines. Helen Hendrickson broke away from the group long enough to press Mrs. Campbell’s hands between her own and hug the First Lady, blinking back tears and murmuring condolences. All the guests were gone in minutes. Their sudden departure left us in suffocating silence.

  Inexplicably, the First Lady asked me to stay with her after the guests were gone. I had a tremendous desire to beg off, but one look at the sadness in her eyes convinced me otherwise. “Of course,” I said. My staff would handle whatever cleanup and storage needed to be done, and though they’d wonder at my absence, they’d certainly manage without me.

  Ja
ckson brought Mrs. Campbell a glass of water, which she took but didn’t sip. She held it in both hands, almost prayerfully, still staring downward. “Thank you,” she said to the butler, and when he inquired what else he could get her, she said, “Nothing. Nothing now.”

  The two Secret Service agents remained: Teska and a female agent, Patricia Berland. They seemed perplexed by my presence. I couldn’t blame them. I’d taken the seat vacated by Blanchard, my mind racing a hundred thoughts at once: how badly I felt about Sean, what I could do for Mrs. Campbell right at the moment, why she had asked me to stay, how soon I could get back to the kitchen, and why this had to happen today. Of all days.

  Sean, who had been working in my kitchen just twenty-four hours ago-was dead. I couldn’t get my mind around that. I couldn’t grasp how he could have been here, so alive, so much fun, and now no longer exist. But I also knew I couldn’t dwell on that right now. My first duty was to Mrs. Campbell.

  She finally raised her head to face Teska. “You said, ‘incident. ’ What do you mean?”

  The two agents exchanged a glance. Teska squinted, as though he were fighting a hard internal argument. “His death is under investigation.”

  “What are you not telling me?”

  Teska’s face twitched. He spoke slowly. “Sean Baxter may have taken his own life.”

  “No!” Mrs. Campbell said, starting to stand. “I don’t believe that.” Berland’s gentle touch on the First Lady’s shoulder was enough to keep her seated. “What happened? Where is he?”

  At this point the two agents seemed to forget I was there. But the First Lady hadn’t forgotten-she reached out and clasped my hand with hers. It was very cold.