by Julie Hyzy
I told him, then said, “You heard about Sean Baxter?”
His eyes, which had crinkled up at the corners when I’d talked about the menu, now drooped. “How could I not? It’s been on every news station.” He shook his big head. “I’ve often wondered why anyone would choose to be president. You lose all privacy.” Waving a hand in the direction of the funeral home, he said, “Gene Sculka’s family has had to deal with some reporters asking questions, but for the most part, they’re allowed to grieve privately. They can be family to one another. They’re able to hold one another up without worrying about the world staring in on them.”
When he sighed, I picked up his train of thought. “I know. I’ve seen the papers. Any move the president or Mrs. Campbell makes is scrutinized and analyzed ten times over.”
His eyes didn’t hold the twinkle they usually did. “Sometimes the news needs to step back and let people just be.”
We were silent for a long moment. I took a sip of my frothy concoction, and enjoyed the sweet, hot trickle down the back of my throat. “You’ve heard about the bomb scare, too?” I said, knowing he had. In this day and age, one would have to be as hermitlike as the Unabomber to avoid the deluge of news that constantly sluiced over us.
“Were you evacuated?”
I told him about being sequestered in the bunker with the First Lady and Sean. I watched emotion tighten Henry’s eyes, and I shared with him my impression that Mrs. Campbell had intended to set me up with Sean.
Henry patted my hand. “This has been hard on you, too.”
I swallowed, finding it a bit more difficult this time. “Yeah.”
We talked about Bucky’s constant temper tantrums, Cyan’s burgeoning talents, and Marcel’s quiet genius. When I told Henry about Agda, he laughed.
“Bucky was quick to remind me that you would never have hired her with such a language barrier.”
Henry stared up toward the ceiling, as though imagining the kitchen. “He’s wrong about that. We aren’t there to talk. We’re there to create superb food. To make the president of our United States forget his troubles long enough to enjoy a wonderful meal.” He launched into one of his patriotic speeches. I smiled as he waxed poetic on the virtues of a good meal and how national leaders made better decisions when they were well cared for. I’d missed Henry’s pontifications. “We’re there to contribute to our country’s success. We aren’t there to make friends.”
Now I rested my hand on his. “But sometimes we make lifelong friends anyway, don’t we?”
He grabbed my fingers and held them. The twinkle was back in his eyes. “That we do.”
Walking to my car after saying good night, I blew out a long breath, watching the wispy air curl in front of me on this cold night. Partly a reminder that I was alive, partly a sigh of frustration, I realized that, despite being able to visit with Henry, I was happy to be on my way home.
Back at my apartment building I wasn’t terribly surprised to find James napping at the front desk. I tried sneaking past without disturbing him, but he woke up when the elevator dinged.
“Ollie,” he said, getting up.
Politeness thrust my hand forward to hold the elevator doors open. “Hi, James,” I said. “How are things?”
Making his way over, he waved his hand at the open car. “Let that one go. I’ve got some information for you.”
Reluctantly, I let the doors slide shut. “Information?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said quickly. Still blinking himself awake, he amended, “Well, I guess I mean Stanley has information for you. He told me to let him know when you got in.”
“Did he say-”
James raised his hand, and looked both ways up and down the elevator corridor. “It’s about that incident the other day. You know, the one where you work?”
“The electrocution?”
James nodded, shooting me a look of mortified annoyance.
My curiosity piqued, I thanked him and pushed the “up” button again. “I’ll stop by his place. He’s on eight, right?”
The same elevator opened.
“Ah… you might try him at your neighbor’s… Mrs. Wentworth’s.”
“Okay, thanks.” I got into the car and wondered what electrical issues were plaguing my neighbor’s apartment that required attention this late at night.
James blushed scarlet as the elevator door closed and it wasn’t until Mrs. Wentworth opened her door, dressed in only a bathrobe-with Stanley behind her similarly attired-that I understood.
“Oh,” I said. “I… I heard Stanley was here. Hi, Stanley.”
“For crying out loud, Ollie, don’t stand there gaping like a grouper,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “Come in here. Stanley has lots to tell you.”
They settled themselves together on Mrs. Wentworth’s flowered couch and I suddenly realized I didn’t know her first name. Stanley was always Stanley to me. She was always Mrs. Wentworth. Not knowing how to address them together added to the discomfort I was feeling right now, facing these two sleep-clad seniors, both wearing a contented sort of glow…
“I had a thought, Ollie,” Stanley said, breaking into my thoughts. Thank goodness. “Remember the day of the accident? It stormed that day, right?”
It had. I remembered Stanley commenting on it. “Yeah…”
“Well, I got to thinking that your electrician there-what was his name?”
“Gene.” My voice caught as I relived the past few hours and Gene’s wake.
“That’s it.” As Stanley talked, Mrs. Wentworth smiled up at him in the way lovestruck teenagers do. All of a sudden, my discomfort vanished. They weren’t bothered by my interruption, so why should I be? These two were adorable. “Yeah, I wager he didn’t get to be the top electrician at the White House by being stupid. If he knew he was going anywhere near high voltage, he would’ve taken precautions.”
“Gene knew the layout of the electricity better than anyone.”
“Exactly my point,” Stanley said. “Which is why I’m betting Gene was killed by a floating neutral.”
“A what?”
“A floating neutral,” he repeated. “Dangerous, and unpredictable.”
Mrs. Wentworth patted Stanley ’s knee. “Show her the thing you made.”
Stanley blushed. “I put together a mock-up to explain it better.” He padded out to the kitchen, with Mrs. Wentworth watching him until he was out of earshot.
“He’s been at this all day making the mock-up to show you. And he’s really proud of himself. Even I understand these neutral thingies now.”
When Stanley returned, he carried a board, about eighteen by twenty-four inches. On it, he’d mounted five sockets. Two held forty-watt bulbs, three held fuses. In the center was an on/off switch. All of the parts were connected to one another with wires and the entire contraption was attached to a scary-looking triple-thick gray cord that sported a round plug as big as my palm. On it were three very long, odd-shaped metal prongs.
“This is a 240 plug,” he said, holding it up. “You don’t see too many of these around the house. But I bet you got one on your dryer.” He waited for me to shrug-I had no idea. “No matter. Some appliances need 240 instead of the regular 120 volts. Like dryers. Check it out when you get back, you’ll see.”
“I will.”
“I’m going to keep it short and simple, but you stop me if you got questions, okay?”
I promised I would.
“Storms can knock out your neutral-your ground. And that’s a bad thing, because your ground is what keeps your house from catching on fire from too much voltage.” He licked his lips. “You got a curling iron?”
“A couple of them,” I said, even though lately I’d been foregoing using them in favor of a quick ponytail.
“Curling irons don’t produce enough heat to catch your house on fire. So if you ever get worried you forgot to shut it off, don’t sweat it.”
“I have one of those auto-shut-off ones-”
“Even better.” H
e waved that away. “But you most likely don’t ever have to worry. Because your appliances are using 120 volts, and most of the time, if everything’s working right, that ain’t going to give you any headaches. But,” he said, warming to his subject, “your house has to have 240 volts coming in so you can run your clothes dryer. It’s too dangerous to send in 240 at once, so you got two wires coming in sending 120 each. Follow?”
“So far.”
“The neutral acts like a buffer between them. I could get really technical here, but there’s no need. All that’s important to know is that if your neutral is broken, then the two 120s don’t have anything keeping them apart. Your curling iron or your heating pad or your toaster can go crazy and heat up hot enough to catch fire.”
He gestured to me to follow him. Mrs. Wentworth got up and came along, too. Stanley led us into the small closet that housed the furnace, washer, dryer, and slop sink. I was amazed at how pristinely clean the tiny room was. I sincerely hoped Mrs. Wentworth would never see the need to visit mine. She’d see delicates hung from cabinet handles, and to-be-washed items lying in piles on the floor.
The Lysol-smelling room was tight with the three of us, but Stanley urged me to lean over the back of the dryer. “See that?” He pulled the plug from a special outlet on the wall. The plug was a near duplicate of the one he’d attached to the board-contraption. “Now, I’m going to fire up my mock-up and I can show you what probably happened to your friend.”
I stepped back, fearful of some explosion or something. Mrs. Wentworth hovered close, blocking the doorway.
When he plugged it in, the two lightbulbs went on. “Looks normal, right?” He flicked the switch, which I now noticed was labeled ON- NORMAL, OFF-OPEN. Nothing happened.
“These two lightbulbs take the same voltage,” he said. “They keep things balanced. Even when the neutral is missing, you’re not going to notice anything wrong.” He unplugged the cord. “Now, watch what happens when we have an imbalance.”
He replaced one of the forty-watt bulbs with a big spotlight version, turned the switch to “on”-meaning normal-and plugged it back in.
Both lights lit-the spotlight was, of course, brighter than the little forty-watt bulb in the accompanying socket, but I couldn’t see anything amiss.
“Ready?” he asked.
Mrs. Wentworth stepped back. I said, “Ready.”
“I’m now eliminating the neutral,” he said, and flipped the switch.
“Whoa!” I said, raising my hand to protect my eyes.
Stanley pointed to the spotlight. “Big difference, huh?”
There was. The spotlight glowed so brightly I couldn’t look at it. The light was so intense, the beam so strong, I felt as though the bulb was barely hanging on. At any moment I expected it to explode.
“Now, y’see, this here is an imbalance,” Stanley continued in his unflappable manner. Mrs. Wentworth had backed out of the tiny room completely. I didn’t want to be rude, but the bulb in the socket was unnervingly bright.
“Is it safe?” I asked.
Stanley made a so-so motion with his head. “You don’t want to keep this on for long,” he said. “Playing with neutrals is never a good idea. That’s why this is all mounted on a wooden board. You see how I’m being careful not to touch anything metal? I’m sure it’s not dangerous at the moment, but I like to take extra precautions just the same.”
He must have noticed me squinting, because he reached into the center of the board and flipped the switch to “on.” Immediately, the two bulbs resumed their normal brightness.
“Does that mean that all 240 volts were in this bulb?” I asked.
“Not quite. Can’t say for sure how much was feeding into here. Maybe 220, maybe a little less. But that’s the thing with neutrals. You gotta have ’em. Things are too unpredictable if you don’t.”
“So you think Gene was killed because of a floating neutral?”
Much to my relief, Stanley unplugged the contraption before answering. “Again, I can’t say for sure. Something got him-and I’d be willing to bet it was something he didn’t expect. If there were 240 volts flying through those lines, the man didn’t stand a chance.” He gave me a wistful look. “I’d know it if I got a look-see, but that isn’t going to happen, is it?”
“Doubtful.” I smiled. “The electricians on staff probably thought of this, right? I mean, this is something you’d look for in an electrocution.”
Stanley cocked a white eyebrow. “Might be worth talking with them just to be sure. Floating neutrals aren’t real common. People don’t think to look for them. And I could be wrong about this-could be something else entirely that shot all that voltage into your friend. But storms are notorious for wreaking havoc with your wiring, including unpredictable damage-grounds, neutrals-you get the idea. I think it’s worth a mention.”
CHAPTER 12
MANNY JOGGED ACROSS THE CENTER HALL, his tool belt jangling to the beat of his pace. I called out to him, but he didn’t hear me. Even though it was still before eight in the morning, the White House was bustling with activity. No matter how much time we allowed to get the residence ready for the official opening, it never seemed to be enough.
“Manny,” I said again, this time loud enough to be carried across the hall.
He turned, his eyes narrowing when he realized it was me. I could practically read his mind. No matter what the executive chef was going to ask, he knew it wouldn’t be good.
Without closing the distance between us, he said, “I’m working on the setup,” jerking a thumb to the south. I knew he had a hundred tasks ahead of him, not the least of which was setting up the holiday lights for the massive tree that would be erected outside, but I needed only a couple minutes of his time.
I made my way toward him, wiping my hands on my apron. “I have a quick question.”
His attention was at once caught by something behind me. I turned to see Vince loping toward us. “It’s about time,” Manny said. “Where have you been?”
“Curly’s looking for you,” Vince said, half turning as though he expected the acting chief electrician to materialize behind him.
“Again? That guy has been on my case all morning.” Manny made a face, muttering in such a way that I knew if I hadn’t been present, he would’ve let loose with a string of expletives. “What’s with him anyway? He’s been-”
I was about to interrupt, to ask Manny and Vince about the floating neutrals, when who should turn the corner but the man himself. “Hey, Curly,” Vince said, hurrying away from our minigathering. “I’m heading out now.” He pointed. “Found Manny for you.”
Curly harrumphed. “What the hell are you doing still inside? I thought we were supposed to have the power up and running out there an hour ago.”
Manny opened his mouth, but I interrupted. “I stopped him to ask a question.”
“Go,” he said to Manny, who took off like a shot. When Curly turned to stare at me with furious contempt, I nearly took a step back. He practically snarled. “What do you want?”
“It’s about Gene.”
“He’s dead.”
I bit the insides of my cheeks. “I have a question about how he died.”
Curly’s jaw worked. I jumped in before he could dismiss me.
“Listen,” I said. “I just want to ask if you’ve considered the possibility that Gene was killed by a floating neutral?”
For the first time in my life, I could tell I caught Curly by surprise. He was dumbfounded. “What?”
“I said, I was wondering-”
“I heard that. How the hell do you know about floating neutrals?” His flabbergasted expression was replaced by the surly look I was used to. “Why are you pushing your nose into my business? Don’t you have a kitchen to run?”
Though not entirely surprised by his reaction, I was still taken aback by his vehemence. I forced myself to hold my ground. “Have you considered the possibility?”
“I don’t know what you’ve been
reading, or think you know, missy, but floating neutrals don’t just pop up out of thin air.”
“But the storm-”
He snorted. “What, you think you’re some sort of expert on our system now? Here, tell you what.” With a flourish, he unfastened his tool belt. Removing it from his waist, he held it out to me. “Juncture number sixty-four is out. And we have a low-voltage issue at K-thirty-five. You take care of those while I go bake cookies, how’s that sound?”
I fixed him with my most pointed, angry glare. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Gene’s dead,” he said again. “Nothing you can do can change that.”
“But I thought if we found out why-”
“Tell you what, missy,” he said as he replaced his tool belt around his waist. “You get yourself a journeyman electrician’s card-then I’ll talk to you. But for now, I’ve got a White House to keep hot.” He started down the same path Manny and Vince had taken. Two steps away, he turned and spoke to me over his shoulder, not breaking stride. “Don’t bug me with this crap again.”
RAFE TOOK UP A POSITION NEXT TO ME AT THE kitchen’s center counter. “What did those chicken breasts ever do to you?”
I looked up, realizing I’d taken out my aggression by pounding the meat so thin, the breasts could’ve been served as high-protein pancakes. “Geez,” I said, embarrassed, “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s your first holiday season in the executive chef position,” he said. “You’re bound to be a little stressed.”
If he only knew. I glanced at the clock. “I think there should be a law against aggravation before nine in the morning.”
Rafe laughed. “Not going to happen. Not around here at least.” He flicked a fleeting look across the kitchen, where Bucky was preparing a new salad dressing of his own concoction, and separately, stirring beef stock we would need later in the day. My second-in-command was murmuring, apparently having an argument with himself.
I took in the rest of the kitchen. Cyan was uncharacteristically silent, and even as Agda rolled dough out, I noticed veins in her arms standing out, and a crease on her forehead.
