by Julie Hyzy
Praise for the White House Chef Mysteries
BUFFALO WEST WING
“Hyzy’s obvious research into protocol and procedures gives her story the realistic element that her readers have come to expect from this top-notch mystery writer. Adventure, intrigue, and a dash of romance combine for a delicious cozy that is a delight to read.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A captivating story from the very first page until the end. The plot thickens like pea soup, and each character has a different spice to add to it. From the easy-to-re-create recipes in the back to its high-energy, ever-changing story line, this one is good enough to serve to the higher-ups. Ollie is definitely a character worth following. Great job, Julie Hyzy. Another all-around great read!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“Ollie Paras is at the top of her game in [Buffalo West Wing, as is Hyzy…Every White House Chef Mystery is cause for celebration. The daily schedule in the White House kitchen is trauma enough, but Hyzy always ratchets up the tension with plots and danger…Julie Hyzy’s star shines brighter than ever with Buffalo West Wing.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
EGGSECUTIVE ORDERS
“The ever-burgeoning culinary mystery subgenre has a new chef-sleuth…The backstage look at the White House proves fascinating. Recipes are included for Eggcellent Eggs.”
—Booklist
“A quickly paced plot with a headstrong heroine and some recipes featuring eggs all add up to a dependable mystery.”
—The Mystery Reader
HAIL TO THE CHEF
“A gourmand’s delight…Julie Hyzy balances her meal ticket quite nicely between the glimpses at the working class inside the White House with an engaging chef’s cozy.”
—Midwest Book Review
“The story is entertaining, the character is charming, the setting is interesting…Fun to read, and sometimes that is exactly what hits the spot. I’ve found all of Hyzy’s books to be worth reading, and this one is no different.”
—Crime Fiction Dossier (Book of the Week)
“[A] well-plotted mystery.”
—The Mystery Reader
STATE OF THE ONION
“Pulse-pounding action, an appealing heroine, and the inner workings of the White House kitchen combine for a stellar adventure in Julie Hyzy’s delightful State of the Onion.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of Dead by Midnight
“Hyzy’s sure grasp of Washington geography offers firm footing for the plot.”
—Booklist
“[A] unique setting, strong characters, sharp conflict, and snappy plotting…Hyzy’s research into the backstage kitchen secrets of the White House gives this series a special savor that will make you hungry for more.”
—Susan Wittig Albert, author of Mourning Gloria
“From terrorists to truffles, mystery writer Julie Hyzy concocts a sumptuous, breathtaking thriller.”
—Nancy Fairbanks, bestselling author of Turkey Flambé
“Exciting and delicious! Full of heart-racing thrills and mouthwatering food, this is a total sensual delight.”
—Linda Palmer, author of Kiss of Death
“A compulsively readable whodunit full of juicy behind-the-Oval-Office details, flavorful characters, and a satisfying side dish of red herrings—not to mention twenty pages of easy-to-cook recipes fit for the leader of the free world.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise for the novels of Julie Hyzy
“A well-constructed plot, interesting characters, and plenty of Chicago lore…A truly pleasurable cozy.”
—Annette Meyers, author of Hedging
“[A] promising talent with a gift for winning characters and involving plots.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Julie Hyzy
White House Chef Mysteries
STATE OF THE ONION
HAIL TO THE CHEF
EGGSECUTIVE ORDERS
BUFFALO WEST WING
Affairs of Steak
Manor House Mysteries
GRACE UNDER PRESSURE
GRACE INTERRUPTED
JULIE HYZY
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
AFFAIRS OF STEAK
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Tekno Books
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Tekno Books.
Cover illustration by Ben Perini.
Cover design by Annette Fiore Defex.
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 9781101553893
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Though belated, this dedication is no less heartfelt.
For Dean and Kris
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, thank you to my wonderful editor, Natalee Rosenstein, as well as to Robin Barletta, Kaitlyn Kennedy, and Erica Rose at B
erkley Prime Crime. Thanks also to the folks at Tekno, especially Marty Greenberg—who will be missed—and John Helfers.
Ollie and I owe a major debt of gratitude to Denise Little, whose inventive recipes are always a hit. Thank you, Denise!
Thanks, too, to reader Patrick Smith, who sent me three beautiful Secret Service medallions I now treasure, as well as a marvelous book on life at the White House. Patrick always cheerfully points me in the direction of great research resources, and I can’t thank him enough.
At the time I wrote this book, a section of New York Avenue Northwest in Washington, D.C., was under construction. In order to create the scene where Ollie meets Milton for the first time, I took a little liberty with the landscape and described a city block crafted entirely from my imagination.
Thanks to Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Thriller Writers of America for camaraderie and support.
Lastly, but most important, thank you to my fabulous family. Love you guys.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
CHAPTER 1
PETER EVERETT SARGEANT AND I WALKED EAST on H Street as fast as our short legs would carry us. Though the cold April day was overcast and damp, it wasn’t the threat of sleet that kept us moving briskly on our trek through the heart of Washington, D.C. What spurred us on was our unspoken agreement. We both wanted to put this morning’s task behind us as quickly as possible.
The First Lady intended to throw a lavish birthday party for Secretary of State Gerald Quinones. That was unusual enough, but having the executive chef—me—and the sensitivity director—Sargeant—visit potential venues together to choose the best site for the event was even stranger.
“How much farther, Ms. Paras?” Sargeant asked me. He knew the answer as well as I did, but he never missed the opportunity to throw a zinger my way. I knew this was his attempt to chastise me for suggesting we walk from one location to the next.
He huffed as he strove to keep up. “I still don’t understand,” he said for at least the fifteenth time since we’d left the White House, “why on earth Mrs. Hyden insisted you and I work together on this.”
At this point I didn’t care if my exasperation showed. I turned to him long enough to roll my eyes. He missed it. The collar of his Burberry trench coat was turned up against the chill, and his cheeks were pink from exertion. As for me, my dark hair was flying free in the wind. I wished I’d worn a hat.
“Peter,” I said to the little man, “I don’t know what great insight you might be expecting, but we won’t learn anything new until we meet with Patty at Lexington Place.”
Patty Woodruff, the First Lady’s newest assistant, had engineered this unique collaboration. I’d have to remember to thank her personally.
Sargeant’s grimace deepened. “I am the White House sensitivity director,” he said unnecessarily. “I should not be required to traipse all over the city to look at available meeting spaces for a party. What’s wrong with holding it at the White House?”
I didn’t bother to acknowledge him. He’d ranted on this topic from the moment we’d set out this morning. So far, we’d visited three prestigious banquet halls, all within easy walking distance. The fourth and final venue, a brand-new standalone location in a refurbished building just a few blocks farther, promised a gorgeous space, LEED-certified efficiency, and plenty of room for all of the invited guests.
Patty had made it clear that this was Mrs. Hyden’s front-runner, which is why it was the final visit on our agenda today. Patty wanted our approval, but I wondered how much impact our opinions would really have. Unless something drastic happened, it was Lexington Place’s gig to lose.
I didn’t know what had prompted Patty to put the two of us together on this project. Anyone else on staff would have known better.
Even though the First Lady was hosting the event, this party was not considered an official function. That was another reason I hadn’t expected to be included. At the White House, I was in charge of the menu and all food preparation. As the first female in the role of executive chef, all State and official dinners were my responsibility. I was proud of my position and my accomplishments—even those that had resulted from me poking my nose in where it didn’t belong. Still, I was surprised that Mrs. Hyden had asked me to oversee the food preparation for the Quinones party. After all, she’d brought on a family personal chef, Virgil Ballantine, shortly after they’d moved in. He was a thorn in my side, and would have jumped at the opportunity to one-up me.
“We’ve entertained thousands of guests on-site before,” Sargeant continued. “Why should this be any different? Why can’t we set up tents on the South Lawn like we did for the Easter Egg Roll last week?”
I pointed skyward. “Patty’s worried about rain. There’s no guarantee the weather will be any better for the party than it is today. We can get away with using tents for the Easter Egg Roll because it’s a casual event. Plus, the weather cooperated.” I thought about the gorgeous spring day last week, with sunny blue skies and temperatures in the seventies. Where was that great weather today? “This event is black-tie. For more than a thousand guests. We can’t fit half that many in the residence. And what happens if it rains all next month? I can’t imagine the president and Mrs. Hyden squishing across saturated grass in their finest clothes.”
“How many of that thousand-plus are coming for dinner?”
Hadn’t he read the update? “One hundred and ten for dinner. One thousand four hundred and twenty-two for the entertainment.”
“Protocol nightmare,” he said.
I didn’t say a word.
“I thought President Hyden and Quinones were sworn political enemies,” he said. “I was surprised enough when he appointed someone from a different political party to the position of secretary of state, but to throw a birthday bash for him?” Sargeant fixed me with a look that made me believe he’d just sucked on a lemon. “I don’t understand that at all.”
Not only did Sargeant not read the memos, but he apparently didn’t pay attention to White House scuttlebutt. “It’s an olive branch. You do know what that is, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
Might be nice if you offered me one once in a while, I thought. But what I said was, “Secretary of State Quinones has had some early successes in his position. There’s a tenuous truce between both political parties right now. An event like this could help cement that.”
“Doubtful.”
Glancing at Sargeant, I noticed perspiration breaking out over his angry brow and I slowed to accommodate him. I was at least fifteen years younger than my companion and clearly in better physical condition. Rather than appreciate my efforts, however, he tapped his watch. “No dawdling. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Fine,” I said, resuming my former pace. We were at least twenty minutes ahead of schedule. There was no need to rush.
“I still don’t know why we didn’t take a cab,” he said.
Though the comment was clearly rhetorical, I answered him anyway. “It’s less than six blocks from our last stop. Plus, it’s healthier, not to mention greener, to walk.”
“Green, maybe. Colder, definitely.” He tugged his collar tight around his neck. “Hmph.”
We walked in silence for a short while up New York Ave
nue, passing the National Museum of Women in the Arts, among other notable spots in the city. “Not much farther,” I said.
At the next intersection, Sargeant slowed his pace. “Let’s cross here.”
I pointed. “But Lexington Place is on this side. Next block, in fact.”
“Have it your way.” He pulled his collar up higher and hunched his shoulders as he started walking again, this time even faster. “Let’s keep moving.”
We passed a couple of stores and restaurants, their bright lights cheery beacons in the cold gloom. I glanced inside as we passed Tous le Monde—one of the places to see and be seen in D.C. For his part, Sargeant didn’t seem to want to be seen at all. He tucked his head deeper into his coat and, if it were possible, grew smaller.
“Okay, fine,” I said and hurried to keep up. The gray sky threatened, though I wasn’t sure whether it would deliver rain or snow. We weren’t the only pedestrians braving this miserable day, but the sound of tires slicking against pavement, the echoes of car horns in the distance, and the wind whistling between buildings were lonely sounds just the same. A gust of cold air shot past as we crossed a dark corridor—wider than a gangway but narrower than an alley—between two restaurants. About halfway down the dark space, three men stood outside a side door to Tous le Monde, taking a smoke break. All three wore kitchen whites and surly expressions. One also wore a shabby trench coat. He looked up as we hurried past.
