by Julie Hyzy
Curly scowled, looking at me with contempt. The fact that he was helping us out instead of doing his own work needled him and I could tell he blamed me. I smiled innocently.
“We’re having problems in the Red Room again,” Paul continued. “Did you cut the power there?”
Manny and Vince were about to head downstairs, but Curly stopped them with an unintelligible command. “What did you two do to the Red Room’s power?” he asked.
Manny looked at Vince, who shrugged. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vince said.
Manny lifted his hands. “No idea. But we’ve got a lot to do, so…”
They were almost to the steps. “Hang on, there,” Curly said, his voice raised. He swore under his breath. The scar that stretched across his head reddened and a vein throbbed at his temple. “Listen,” he said to Paul, “I’ve been at this all day. I checked the Red Room, everything’s hot. You tell me something’s wrong. I check it again, and there’s still nothing wrong. You think maybe your staff don’t know the difference between the on and off switch?”
Ever unflappable, Paul shook his head. “I checked it myself, Curly. In fact, I just came from there. We have no power in the Red Room.”
Curly raised a hand to his two assistants, then pointed down. “You go see what’s what. And I want a complete report.”
“Hold off on that a minute,” Paul said, preventing the two men from leaving yet again. “I’m also here to inform you about a change in plan. I’ve just gotten word that the First Lady will not be entertaining here this afternoon. We will not have the traditional decorator tour after all.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Not just for my team’s sake, but for that of the First Lady. She needed a break, and it seemed that finally she’d be able to get one. “We aren’t serving, then?” I asked.
Paul shook his head. “Today is off. Completely.”
Pulled from his mesmerizing study, Marcel straightened. “The house is not needed for today?” he asked. With an indignant tug of his tunic, he shot blazing eyes at Paul. “Why was I not told sooner?”
Paul raised his hand in a placating gesture. “I just found out. There have been… developments… in Mr. Baxter’s funeral arrangements.”
My hand immediately flew to my pocket, where I’d stowed the letter from Sean. “Developments?”
I knew Paul was reluctant to share any information he didn’t deem necessary. “Mrs. Campbell has opted to spend more time with the president’s family. She’s needed there.”
“Did they say anything more about whether they’re investigating this as a homicide?”
Paul looked away. “We’ll let you know more when we can, Ollie.”
Curly had lowered his chin and now sent us piercing looks as he rolled his head back and forth between us, his eyes wide with boredom. “And this affects the electricity how?”
Marcel muttered to himself about being left out of important decisions, but he’d gone back to studying the gingerbread house and was mostly quiet. Yi-im stood away from us, his hands clasped at his waist.
Tiredness settled around Paul’s expressive eyes as he addressed Curly’s concerns. “I’m bringing you all up to date right now. A memo will go out shortly. Please plan to have everything ready for display on Tuesday.”
I piped up, “The day we reopen to the public?”
Marcel muttered. Paul nodded. “We plan to tie the opening ceremony for the holiday season with the decorator tour. The only difference between the two events is size. And once we put both together, don’t be surprised if Tuesday turns out to be a wild media event.” He relaxed his features. “Curly, you’ll see to the Red Room?”
“These two will see to it right now. And I guarantee I’m going to check it myself when they’re done.”
Only too happy to get the heck out of there, Manny said, “Okay, thanks.” He looked to Curly. “We good to go?”
Curly jerked a thumb. “Get.”
Vince started toward the Red Room, but Manny tugged his arm. “We got to check it from downstairs, first.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Paul clapped his hands together, thanked us all, and left.
Curly looked like he was ready to depart, but I stopped him. “I think Marcel needs help getting this into the Red Room. Don’t you, Marcel?”
Our pastry chef seemed to become suddenly aware of the recent departures. “I cannot do this alone. Where are the other two?” he asked.
If laser-eyed stares could kill, I would have been dead on the floor. Curly worked his jaw. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, taking a position at one end of the house. He ordered Yi-im to the opposite side and told Marcel to push the cart.
“But there are so few of us,” Marcel said. “How can we-”
“Just push the damn thing,” Curly said.
Marcel closed his mouth, fixing the other man with a glare of condescension. “But of course, you have no appreciation for art.”
Curly ignored him.
We all quickly realized that Marcel had neither the upper body strength nor the inclination to push the heavy load across the massive hall. I was about to suggest that we ask a couple of other staffers to help when Yi-im took over for Marcel, and I took Yi-im’s position. As though the huge structure weighed nothing, he pushed it smoothly and quickly into the Red Room, where we left it in the room’s center. Kendra had given us strict instructions not to place it on its display table yet. That would come later, after she’d ensured that everything was exactly where she wanted it.
As we left Marcel to coo over his creation a bit longer, and Yi-im to continue to assist in his quiet, capable way, I tried one of the room’s lights. It went on, nice and bright. “Looks like your guys got the power going in here again.”
“Couple of idiots,” Curly said.
We were in the cross hall now. “Hey,” I said, turning. “The Red Room is right above the Map Room.”
Curly didn’t stop walking.
“Curly.”
Impatiently, he turned.
I took that as an invitation to continue. “The Map Room is the room Gene was working on when he got that power surge.”
“So?”
“Remember? The day of the electrocution, the Map Room had gone powerless.”
“I don’t remember,” he said.
“That’s right,” I said, recollection dawning on me. That was the day Curly’s wife had been taken to the hospital. “You weren’t here. The Map Room didn’t have power. Gene thought it had been taken care of, but when it wasn’t, he set out to fix it himself.”
Curly’s calloused fingers skimmed his scar. “I don’t know what this has to do with anything.”
“Don’t you see? Whatever killed Gene may be happening again. Remember those floating neutrals I asked you about?”
Curly scowled, throwing his hands violently sideways-as though swatting a giant fly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You learn one little thing, you think you’re an expert. I told you once: You show me your electrician’s card, and only then I’ll start listening to what you have to say.”
“But-”
“Just…” He shook his head, and held up his hands, swatting the air again. This time when he turned and left, I didn’t call after him.
CHAPTER 17
BACK IN THE KITCHEN, I GAVE MY TEAM THE news. “Slow down, everyone. Today’s reception has been canceled.”
Relief brightened their faces as they all stood back from their tasks and took a breath. Agda stared a long moment. “I stop now?” she asked.
“We all stop now,” I said.
“What are we supposed to do with all the extra?” Bucky asked. “Look at how much we’ve already done.”
He had a point. There were hundreds of appetizers lined up on enormous baking sheets, waiting to be served. “Let’s freeze what we can,” I said, letting them know that the event had been rescheduled for Tuesday. “And we’ll take the rest down to the cafeteria to share.”
>
“Tuesday?” Bucky said. “Won’t that be a madhouse?”
The general public-those who had the foresight to prearrange a visit-and congressional leaders and their families were all due here to vie for photo-ops at the opening ceremony. The event today was supposed to have been for the local press and other highfalutin magazines. Dubbed the Decorator Tour, the Sunday event traditionally gave the world a sneak peek at the year’s White House extravaganza.
“I can’t even begin to worry about it,” I said. “Since the decorators are coming Tuesday now, too, we’ll just have to add what we can from today’s menu to what we have planned. We’ll be fine.”
I kept my tone light, but I was concerned nonetheless. Today had been the day I agonized over because of food preparations, but I was also preoccupied with safety concerns. Last night Tom and I had discussed how today, Sunday, had been the bomb’s target day. We agreed that if the Secret Service believed a threat still remained, they would have canceled today’s event.
Now suddenly it was canceled.
I swallowed before continuing, rationalizing that if there were any real threat, we would have been evacuated by now. With the president out of town and the White House closed to outsiders, the likelihood of an attempt was cheerfully slim. The same held for Tuesday, when the First Lady would open the White House to the public-the president was scheduled for a trip to Berlin. No president meant no bomb.
That gave me comfort. And to be honest, I was happy for the recent change of plan. In fact, I was feeling better than I had in a very long time. President Campbell was safe for now. And the next possible chaotic situation-Tuesday’s opening-would happen without him in town. That should buy us some safety.
Fingering the note in my pocket, I realized that things were not completely perfect. The note from Sean convinced me that those in authority needed to look more closely into the manner of his death. But who could I talk to? Tom would have been my first choice, but he was away and wholly incommunicado until Wednesday.
As if reading my mind, Cyan wandered over and spoke in a low voice. “That document Sean left you,” she said. “Are you going to do anything about it?”
“Did you read it?”
When she flushed, I had my answer. “It doesn’t sound like it was written by someone about to commit suicide,” she said.
“I didn’t think so either.”
Inching closer, she whispered. “You always seem to get in the middle of things, Ollie.” When I reacted, she was quick to add, “That is, things seem to happen to you-around you. All the time.”
She was starting to sound a lot like Gav.
“I can’t help that,” I said.
Keeping her voice low, she said, “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just that I know you well enough to know that you’re probably trying to figure out what happened to Sean all by yourself.”
I shook my head, but Cyan wasn’t finished.
“All I’m saying is to be careful.”
“I am being careful.”
She gave me a wry frown. “I know you don’t believe Sean killed himself, but if he didn’t… well, that means somebody else killed him. If you’re trying to investigate this, and you’ve got a note like that”-she nodded toward my pocket-“you could be asking for trouble.”
“I’m not trying to investigate.”
Her look said she didn’t believe me. “You’re always poking around, Ollie. We both know that.” Her wide-swept glance took in the rest of the kitchen. “We all know that.”
Bucky, Rafe, and Agda were beginning to shoot curious looks our way. It wasn’t often two people held a private, whispered conversation in front of the giant mixer. I grabbed Cyan’s elbow. “I swear, I’m not touching this one.” I gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t even know where Sean lived. And so far, there hasn’t been anything I can do to help anyone in this investigation, even if I wanted to.” My hand curled around the note in my pocket and I pulled it up high enough for Cyan to see a corner of it. “Well, at least not until now, that is.”
She gave a resigned nod. “Just be careful, okay?”
I WOULD HAVE PREFERRED TO TALK TO AGENTS Teska or Berland, who’d been with Mrs. Campbell when she first received news of Sean’s death, but they were again with the First Lady-wherever she was right now. I could have talked with any of the other agents assigned to the White House, but that would have involved explaining the whole story to them. No, I needed to talk with a person in the know, with the authority to get things done.
I found him downstairs in the cafeteria, alone, reading papers out of a manila folder, arms resting on the tabletop, fingers wrapped around the handle of a steaming mug. He wore gold half-moon reading glasses perched at the very end of his nose. The place was quiet, but at this time of day, and at this time of year, it wasn’t surprising. No one had time for coffee breaks. Well, hardly anyone.
“Do you have a minute, Gav?”
His gaze and eyebrows arched over the tops of his glasses, and his mouth tugged down. Dressed as always in a suit and tie, he looked totally at ease, which is more than I was at the moment.
“What can I do for you, Ollie?” he asked, holding a palm out toward the chair next to his.
I sat. Then pushed a hard breath out.
“Feeling the effects of yesterday’s scare?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, rubbing my upper arms. “But that’s not what’s bothering me this time.”
He sat back, removed the glasses, and placed them on the table next to the mug. “Talk to me.”
I dragged the note out and spread it before him on the small table. He was fully versed in the Sean situation, so there wasn’t much to explain before he read it. “I found this on my kitchen computer,” I said. “Sean Baxter left it for me.”
Gav leaned both arms on the table and held the paper far from his face. One second later, he pulled the glasses back on and started skimming.
I added, “He wrote this the day before he died.”
Gav looked up. For the first time, I noticed his eyes. Pale gray. “And you’re bringing this to me because…?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Gav continued to read. I waited.
“You believe this is proof he didn’t commit suicide?”
I nodded.
“I’d have to agree the wording doesn’t sound like it came from someone depressed enough to take his own life.”
“Can you show that to someone? Would you be able to get that into the proper hands?”
Gav sucked on his lower lip for a moment before answering. He stared at the page, rereading. “This is on your computer in the kitchen?”
I nodded again. “I almost didn’t notice it. He’d opened it under an obscure heading.”
“Obscure,” Gav repeated. “But you found it.”
“It seemed out of place.”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “Just like I told you. You have an eye for things.”
That was all nice and complimentary, but I wanted to be sure this paper did some good. “Can you get it into the proper hands?” I repeated.
He folded it into fourths and placed it into his shirt pocket. “Can anyone else access this letter?”
“Sure,” I said. “But no one else will.” I thought about Cyan and amended, “Hardly anyone. The kitchen staff only accesses recipes and other necessary documents. I handle the administrative issues. This is under my set of documents.”
“Is it password-protected?”
“No, but there’s no reason-”
“Ollie, what did I tell you about trusting people?”
“No one in the kitchen-”
He held a hand up. “Even if you’re right and no one in the kitchen means anyone any harm, how do you know that individuals from other departments aren’t accessing your files?”
I opened my mouth to argue, but realized I had nothing to say. Although I was savvy enough to manipulate recipes, files, and spreadsheets, I knew nothing about firewall
s or security stuff like that. That wasn’t my area of expertise. Now that I thought about it, however, I supposed it could be possible for others to access my files when I wasn’t looking-either in person, or through the quirks of cyberspace.
He jumped into my awkward silence. “Has anyone else seen this?”
“Cyan.”
“She’s the little redhead?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
Gav seemed to weigh that information. “Probably best if you keep this to yourself. Can you trust Cyan?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then tell her to keep mum, too.”
“What will you do with the note?” I asked.
“Make copies. Show them to the officers in charge. I’ll get one to the First Lady as well.”
Any uneasiness I’d felt about sharing the letter with Gav had dissipated. My mood lightened. “Thanks,” I said.
“When I say to keep this to yourself, I really mean that.”
“I know.”
He stole a look to the right and then to the left. The only other humans in the room were two maintenance men, who were wiping down the far countertop. “Ollie,” he said, leaning forward, “if Sean was murdered-and I’m not saying he was…”
“I know.”
“Then whoever killed him won’t want this information out there.”
I thought about how similar Gav’s warnings were to Cyan’s. “I understand.”
He tapped his breast pocket. “But this gives us a place to start looking for suspects.”
CHAPTER 18
I MADE MY WAY TO THE FIRST FLOOR TO TAKE a look at the decorating in progress. Most days of the year we had crowds wandering through the White House to tour the public rooms. But today and tomorrow would be quiet now that the Decorator Tour had been canceled. I wanted to steal a selfish minute to breathe in the beauty of the holiday before things got crazy again tomorrow. I wandered through the Entrance Hall and, as always, appreciated its grandeur. While the White House was permanently a show-place and forever gorgeous, this time of year the mansion sparkled with holiday spirit.
