by Julie Hyzy
“What about me?”
Doug smiled as Sargeant entered. “Thanks for joining us. I have some important news to discuss with both of you. But first, Ollie, please continue.”
Sargeant’s expression darkened as I told Doug about Milton’s visit the day before. By the time I’d finished explaining the encounter, Sargeant wore a deep scowl. “I don’t believe my nephew’s involvement needed to be discussed at this level.”
“I disagree,” Doug said. “Thank you for letting me know, Ollie. Did the Secret Service tell you how they intended to proceed?”
I gave a short laugh. “Do they ever?”
“Good point.” Doug scratched at the back of his head. What little hair he had was standing on end as though he’d been grabbing it with both hands and trying to yank it out. His eyes were bloodshot and small. “Okay, before I get to why I called you up here, is there anything else we need to cover about the incident at Lexington the other day?”
Incident? Doug made it sound more like an unfortunate wine spill rather than a case of double murder. “No,” I said. “Have you heard if the police have any leads?”
“The media is continuing to pursue the rumor that Chief of Staff Cawley and Ms. Woodruff were having an affair, but I think we all know that’s ludicrous.”
“Was the medical examiner able to determine how much earlier than Patty Mr. Cawley was killed?”
“Why on earth would you care?” Sargeant asked.
“I like when things make sense. You and I both know that Cawley and Patty were killed at different times. There has to be a reason. If the police are able to figure out why, they may have a clue to who killed them.”
He made a noise that sounded like harrumph.
“No idea, Ollie,” Doug said. “They keep me updated on a lot, but there are details I’m not privy to. All I know is that the police aren’t squelching the affair rumor because it keeps the media on the wrong track.”
If Doug didn’t have any idea about the two victims’ times of death, he surely wouldn’t know why Cawley’s phone was set to play the opening bars of “Mandy,” so I just said, “What’s on your mind, Doug?”
“As we discussed before, the First Lady has decided not to hold the secretary of state’s birthday party at Lexington Place.”
“But she’s still planning to host it?” Sargeant asked.
Doug nodded slowly. “It’s a tough call, but there’s more at stake than just a simple party. This event promises to bring two groups together. Groups that don’t ordinarily mix, let alone work together. The president and First Lady are working hard—and very shrewdly, I might add—to build consensus. Throwing a lavish event such as this one is a brilliant move. If it goes well, this could be the start of significant harmony in our government.”
“And if it doesn’t go well?” Sargeant asked. Always the optimist.
Doug wore a grim expression. “We need to make certain it does, and that not one single thing goes wrong.” His hands curled into fists so tight I could see the whites of his knuckles. “Not one.”
“Okay,” I said, “what do you need us to do?”
“First of all, thank you for the reports you sent me. I know I told you I wouldn’t need them immediately, but it turns out I did and I appreciate it. We’re moving ahead with these plans, despite the recent tragedy, because we all know how much lead time is necessary to get a project of this scope under way. There’s no time to waste.”
Doug was talking in circles, but maybe that made it easier for him to keep control of the many balls he was juggling.
“Based on Patty’s preliminary reports, which she recorded before her death, and the opinions you two submitted, Secretary of State Quinones’s birthday party will now be held at Jean-Luc’s. I believe both of you pegged that as your second choice. You probably also realize that Patty’s colleagues are having a difficult time dealing with this.” He waited for us to nod.
“Chief of Staff Cawley’s funeral is scheduled for Monday. I’m not quite sure about Patty’s arrangements yet. I haven’t heard from her family. Regardless of when her services will be held, her loss is being felt all over the East Wing. The people she worked with are some of her closest friends. You may not be aware that she worked with Mrs. Hyden and several of the other assistants in the past. They’re very close and this loss has devastated them.
“With that in mind,” Doug went on, “we ought to give them a hand. They’re all professionals, yes, and we will eventually be able to depend on them to make the secretary’s birthday party a success, but right now they need our help.”
“Absolutely. What do you need us to do?” I asked.
Sargeant looked ready to backhand me out of my chair.
“I’m glad you asked, Ollie,” Doug said, “because I would like for you and Peter to take over Patty’s responsibilities until another assistant is appointed to take her place.”
“Exactly what do you mean by ‘take over’?” I asked. “Neither of us is qualified to organize a White House affair—I mean, beyond our regular responsibilities.”
“The two of you have been part of the decision making on this project from the very beginning. All I’m asking is that you both step it up a notch. Work together to get all the preliminary legwork done.”
Sargeant fairly leaped out of his seat. “You can’t be serious.”
I tried to look at the bigger picture. Maybe Doug wasn’t asking us to do the impossible, but the sinking feeling in my gut told me differently. “I thought all the preliminary legwork was complete,” I said. “What still needs to be done? You do realize that we know nothing about organizing an event of this magnitude.”
“You’re both resourceful and smart. Additionally, I have notebooks explaining every step. Complete with checklists.” He smiled, but it was clearly for our benefit. Wasn’t working. “You’ll coordinate with the social secretary regarding the list of invitees. Obviously that information needs to be disseminated to various departments, not the least of which is Secret Service. Peter, you will assess any sensitive conflicts between guests and investigate ethnic and religious observances. Ollie, you’ll plan an appropriate menu, with options for those who require them. Simple.”
Notebooks? Checklists? “There’s a lot more to it than you’re telling us,” I said.
He shrugged as though it was nothing. “Sure, there’s more. For instance, you’ll have to coordinate floral arrangements with Kendra. Make sure the final guest list gets to the calligrapher’s office. Arrange for social aides to be there that night. As long as you keep very detailed notes and keep everyone informed, this should be a breeze.”
“You’re serious,” I said.
Sargeant, shell-shocked, sputtered, “But, but, but…”
Doug’s expression hardened. “I’m not talking about setting up the entertainment or choosing an evening theme. Others will handle that. I’m not asking you to write out the invitations by hand or personally arrange flowers. Your job will simply be to act as liaison. To facilitate.”
“What you’re saying is—”
“That you two will coordinate efforts between Jean-Luc’s and the White House. Pretty simple if you think about it. Patty was new to the job and no one doubted she could handle it. You two have far more experience than she had. There’s really nothing to it. Keep in mind that we’ll be getting one of the assistants to take over as soon as we can. You’re just interim organizers. Just like I’m the interim chief usher.” Doug looked at us with tired eyes. “I’m doing the best I can. All I’m asking is that you both do the same.”
He was in over his head on this one, drowning in a sea of chaos and dragging us under with him. “This is so far out of our purview,” I began, “we won’t have any idea—”
Sargeant joined me. “This is ridiculous. I’m the sensitivity director, for goodness’ sake. You can’t make me into a social director just because you don’t care to oversee this project yourself.”
Doug threw his pen down. “This isn’t
a request.” Rather than quietly trying to settle us the way Paul would have, he worsened the situation by raising his voice. “Both of you will take this over.” His hands curled into fists of frustration. “No one else is prepared to do so right now. Once the other assistants come back on board, you’ll be able to resume your regular responsibilities, and serve simply as consultants. What we need now, however, is a consistent hand at the helm. That’s where you two come in.”
Sargeant waved a finger at him. “You said ‘consistent hand.’ That would be singular.”
“I hate to admit it, but I agree,” I said. “A single hand. His or mine, I don’t care.” Truth was, I did care. But one battle at a time. “This is not a good idea.”
Sargeant went on, “And you’re missing the most glaring obstacle of all. Ms. Paras and I do not work well together.”
Doug’s voice trembled as it rose again. “This is not a matter for discussion. You two are in charge. Get used to it.”
The words were strong, the delivery—not so much. Doug was out of his league, and I could read hesitation in his eyes. Right or wrong, he’d made his decision. Unfortunately, we were stuck with it.
Sargeant looked at me and I at him. I could feel waves of contempt radiating at me.
“Jean-Luc’s, huh?” I said just to lessen the room’s tension.
Doug cleared his throat and consulted his notes again. “We have time constraints. I understand you’re both busy, and I don’t want to put you in an impossible situation.”
Too late.
Keeping his eyes on his scribbles, Doug kept talking. “With that in mind, I’m assigning you an assistant. One of our social aides is currently on medical leave from his full-time military position.” Quick look up at us. “Broken wrist.” Back down at the notes. “His infirmity shouldn’t hamper him from assisting you two. I don’t anticipate any heavy lifting. His job will be to help you get to know the players.”
Social aides were an interesting breed. For the most part they comported themselves well. Tall, impressive-looking, wearing their dress uniforms and gold braid aiguettes across their chests, their job was to mingle at White House and other official events, chat up the guests, and dance with lonely wallflowers. Social aides were brought in to ensure that a good time was had by all.
I pulled out my notebook. “Who is it?”
Doug seemed relieved to be able to dictate without getting an argument. “Wyatt Becker. He’s meeting you there today.”
“I don’t know him,” I said.
“I do.” Sargeant got an unpleasant look on his face. “He’s arrogant, talkative, and ineffectual. I don’t care for him.”
“Great, I’ll probably adore the guy.” I stood up, ignoring the look of surprise on Doug’s face. Everyone in the White House knew there was no love lost between me and Sargeant. No sense in pretending differently now.
Then I remembered Paul’s prediction. This may very well have been a set up to grease Sargeant’s dismissal. “I’m sorry,” I said to both of them. “That was uncalled for. I’m just feeling the stress of everything. I’m happy to help wherever I can.”
Doug nodded. “Thank you, Olivia.” Peter, of course, remained silent.
“How often do you want updates on the event’s progress?” I asked.
“Oh…” Doug shuffled papers around, “um…”
So he hadn’t thought it through that far. That gave me a real feeling of comfort. “How about we check in as necessary?” I said in an attempt to put him at ease and maintain a little control. “We’ve got this one.”
Sargeant stared at me, open-mouthed.
“Come on, Peter,” I said, “we’ve got work to do.”
“Wait, so you’re not only in charge of the food for Secretary of State Quinones’s birthday party, you’re also in charge of overseeing its entire organization?” Cyan’s incredulous expression was reminiscent of Sargeant’s in Doug’s office.
“It gets better. I have a partner to help me.”
“Who?”
“Sargeant.”
The kitchen exploded with surprise. Bucky slammed a towel onto the stainless steel counter. “This is ridiculous.”
“You’re telling me.”
Virgil wasn’t bothered. “I catered a birthday party for the Hydens once and I handled everything just fine. Maybe the new usher should assign me instead. At least then he’ll have a win for his first big project in the new job.”
Cyan rolled her eyes. “Doug is just standing in for Paul while he’s on vacation.”
Virgil looked amused. “Is that what you believe?”
“Virgil,” I said, my voice a warning, “didn’t Paul tell you? He’s on vacation. Doug is just stepping in as interim chief usher.”
“He’s interim, all right. But that’s only until all this murder business dies down. Then they’ll figure out who’s in charge permanently. The First Lady confided in me. She told me that Paul is out. Gone. Hasta la vista, baby.”
For the second time in as many minutes, the room exploded. “Ollie, did you know about this?” Cyan asked.
Rather than answer her, I advanced on Virgil. “That was supposed to be kept quiet, until we were told it was all right to share the information. What business do you have spilling it to us? What other White House confidences have you broken?”
Virgil backed up. “The First Lady told me because she trusts me.”
“Look how you repaid her: by breaking that trust.”
“Are you kidding? The three of you won’t tell anyone.” He pointed at me. “I wasn’t even sure you knew yet. But if we’re all supposed to work together here, shouldn’t we be able to share what we know? I mean…don’t you trust us?”
Cyan turned to me. As did Bucky. Virgil’s words had struck a nerve with them. He had a point. Even if I didn’t like the way he’d made it, I had to acknowledge the truth of his statement.
“Maybe I should have trusted you with that information,” I began, “but in my defense, I was told not to. Not only that, but I think you, Cyan, and you, Bucky, know that I have never broken a confidence you’ve shared with me. I felt the need to protect Paul’s privacy because he asked me to. He’s a friend, and I choose to protect him the same way I protect both of you.” I glanced over. “I would do the same for you, Virgil.”
No one said anything, but I thought I saw understanding in Bucky’s and Cyan’s eyes. That’s all I asked for.
Sargeant arrived in the kitchen, wearing his winter coat. “Are you ready?”
I wasn’t ready to leave, not now. But duty called. “Yeah,” I said, “just give me a minute.” As I grabbed my own coat, I went over the day’s list with Bucky. We had several hastily planned dinners coming up over the next few days. Bucky and Cyan could handle these with no problem, but all final decisions rested with me.
“Believe me, I’d much rather be here,” I said as I pulled my coat on.
“And we’d want you here,” Cyan answered.
Virgil walked away. Bucky smirked and leaned in, lowering his voice, “How much you want to bet he’ll try to take over while you’re gone?”
“My money’s on you,” I whispered back.
“I’ll call if we run into any problems,” he said.
I didn’t expect any. “See you soon, I hope.” I took a long look around the kitchen. They might not run into any problems, but I had a feeling I would.
CHAPTER 9
JEAN-LUC’S WAS WITHIN EASY WALKING DISTANCE of the White House, but the Secret Service insisted on escorting us there. With all that had transpired recently, I didn’t particularly mind. As the car slowed in front of the four-story, ultra-modern structure, Sargeant leaned toward me. “Doesn’t this building seem more likely than Lexington Place to win a green award?”
“You know what they say about appearances being deceiving,” I said, but I agreed with him. Everything about Jean-Luc’s was sleek, shiny, clean, bright. It didn’t just stand out between its elderly neighbors, it sparkled. Jean-Luc’s was n
ot only the new kid on the block, it was the one with all the toys. When we’d visited last time, I felt like I was walking into the future. But I, and everyone else, had preferred the classic lines and the old-world elegance of Lexington Place.
Remembering our visit to the kitchen there, I hoped there were no surprises waiting for us here today. I suppressed a shudder. But not well enough.
Sargeant peered at me. “I wish we weren’t here, either,” he said.
As we alighted, a doorman greeted us with a big smile and a tip of his hat. “We are delighted to welcome you. Let me show you in.” He held out an arm toward the steps, which led up to the towering glass doors.
Our Secret Service escort instructed us to call when we needed to be picked up. As he drove off, something caught my eye.
“Hang on,” I said.
Sargeant was already halfway to the stairs. He turned, glancing warily up and down the street. “What now?”
“Someone was watching as we pulled up. Whoever it was ducked out of sight.” I pointed toward the space between Jean-Luc’s and its next-door neighbor building. “Give me a minute,” I said over my shoulder.
I sensed Sargeant’s presence behind me as I reached the edge of Jean-Luc’s. My heart raced even as my nose wrinkled. The narrow space was just wide enough for a single vehicle. Rotting garbage in overstuffed and split bags poured all over the uneven ground. Sourness swirled around me. If this had been the middle of summer, the stench would have been overpowering. This access alley provided for deliveries, with plenty of dark doors out of the public eye. Unfortunately, it seemed to be a convenient staging area for garbage as well.
With surrounding multi-storied walls on either side, the alleyway was rife with shadows. It wasn’t dark enough, however, to obscure the person who had been watching us. She cowered when I turned the corner. Squatting next to a giant plastic bin, she stared up at me with apprehension while wrapping one arm around three ratty shopping bags. “Go away,” she shouted, waving the other hand over her head.
A homeless woman caught being nosy.
