Foreign Éclairs

by Julie Hyzy

  “Piece of cake.”

  “Thanks.” Pulling off my apron and checking my smock, as I had so many times this week before heading to meet with Peter Sargeant, I mused aloud, “This is what I get for expounding on how perfectly the day was going.”

  “It might be nothing,” Bucky said.

  “Ewww.” I noticed a starburst-shaped splatter near my collar, which sent me scrambling for a new smock. “Maybe.” I tore off the old one and pulled on the new. “How do I look?”

  “Like a chef I’d want to work for,” Bucky said. “Good luck with the interview.”

  “Third time’s the charm,” I reminded him. “Keep the good thought.”

  * * *

  I arrived at Sargeant’s office less than five minutes later. Elaine greeted me warmly and told me to go right in and shut the door.

  “Uh-oh,” I said as I took a seat across from him. “Closed doors usually portend bad news.”

  Like last time, he held his reading glasses in one hand while he rubbed his eyes with the other. “Paul Vasquez made this job look so easy,” he said before looking up at me. Sargeant had been in the position of chief usher for more than a year but, to me, it seemed as though he’d aged at least five in the interim.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  He donned his glasses to read from his notes. “Detective Beem called me about a half hour ago. He and Detective Kager were able to uncover more information about the two men who attacked you.”

  “Viceboy and Dagger.”

  “It appears that the duo was actually a trio.”

  Sitting up straighter, I conjured an image from Sunday night. “There weren’t three,” I said. “I watched the two men run away. There was no one else with them.”

  “The third member of the group is either another general or a gang lieutenant, but may not have been with Viceboy and Dagger when they robbed you. The detectives have reason to believe this individual may be able to shed light on the situation. They plan to pick him up for questioning.”

  “He wasn’t with them, but he’s able to help with the investigation? I don’t understand.”

  “The detectives have apparently taken our request to heart and are pursuing the matter with more enthusiasm than they exhibited last time they were here. Detective Beem wanted me to know that he and Kager would be following up personally with this third gang associate.”

  “Does this guy have a name?”

  Sargeant frowned at his notes. “Cutthroat.”

  “Lovely.”

  “They’re hoping Cutthroat will be able to tell us what Viceboy and Dagger were doing so far off their turf when they were executed, and why two gang generals would risk stealing a purse when they had minions willing to do that kind of dirty work for them.”

  “I appreciate the update,” I said. “I think your comment about it being a favor to the White House is what piqued their interest. Thank you for that, by the way.”

  He nodded. “I’m pleased they haven’t dropped the matter. Agent Walker and I haven’t had much luck connecting with the team investigating Viceboy and Dagger’s case, but we are in contact with the team handling Margaret’s murder.”

  “Any news there?” I asked.

  Sargeant bunched his mouth and took a deep breath before answering. “I’ve seen photos of the crime scene. Before you ask, trust me, Olivia: You don’t want any part of them. There’s nothing to be gained, and the images will haunt you for years. I know they’ll haunt me.” He pulled his glasses off his face and rubbed his eyes again. “Her home was ransacked—vandalized. She died at the hands of monsters. I hope whoever tormented her suffers the same fate.”

  There was nothing I could say except, “I’m sorry.”

  Elaine tapped on the door, opened it, and peeked in. “Ms. Catalano is here for her interview.”

  Sargeant took another deep breath. “Thank you, Elaine. Please send her in.” When his assistant left, he made eye contact with me. “We’re overdue for good news. Let’s hope this candidate is a winner.”

  * * *

  Sargeant and I asked Lottie Catalano most of our standard questions and she delivered thoughtful, intelligent answers to all of them. Older than Cyan by a few years—closer to my age, probably—Lottie had a small mouth, pink, puffy cheeks, and a tendency to bite her bottom lip. Her face was damp with perspiration, but her eyes were alert.

  We were about three-quarters of the way through the interview when Sargeant asked about her availability. The sooner she could start the better, but everyone understood the need to provide a current employer with appropriate notice.

  For the first time during the interview, Lottie winced. “I hope you both understand how very much I desire to work here,” she said.

  Sargeant and I exchanged a glance. There was a “but” screaming behind her words.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “I first learned about the job opening three weeks ago,” she said. “I applied immediately, of course. I never dreamed I’d be called in for an interview, but here I am.”

  We both waited.

  “Four weeks ago,” she said, stressing the word, “my husband and I put a bid on a house.” She bit her lip. “In California. His parents are out there, and our daughter is almost three. We believed it would be a good environment for our little family. Our bid was accepted, and we began making plans to move.”

  “Why did you apply for this position if you knew you were relocating?”

  She lifted both hands. “I couldn’t not apply,” she said. “This would be a dream job for me. I put my name in fully knowing that even if I were lucky enough to wrangle an interview, I would most likely be unable to actually accept the job. When the White House called me last week to schedule today’s interview, I couldn’t find it in my heart to refuse. I just couldn’t.”

  I watched my high hopes for hiring this woman shred into tatters around me.

  “The thing is,” she went on, “two days before that, our Realtor called. The house inspector uncovered a problem. A big one. I won’t bore you with all the details, but right now it looks as though our plans are in flux.”

  “Oh?” My mood brightened. “You mean there’s a chance you may be staying in D.C.?”

  She kept her hands in her lap, but her fingers never stopped moving. “If the house purchase doesn’t go through and if I’m hired here, then there’s no question: We’ll stay.”

  “That’s a lot of ifs.” Sargeant’s back was rigid and his words were sharp.

  “I wanted to be as up-front about my situation as possible. Contractually, we’re required to allow the home sellers a chance to resolve the problem before we can walk away from the deal. If we cancel before then, we stand to lose a lot of money we can’t afford. Until we know which way it will go, I’m in limbo.” Her gaze flicked from me to Sargeant, back to me. “I completely understand if this situation disqualifies me from consideration, and I apologize for wasting your time.”

  Years of working with Sargeant provided me with insight to his moods. His darkening brow, the exactitude with which he folded his hands atop his desk, and the set of his jaw presaged a storm about to blow.

  Jumping in before he could quash Lottie Catalano’s hope with a scathing dismissal, I said, “We truly appreciate your honesty.” Getting to my feet, I said, “I hope we have the opportunity to discuss this further. Will you keep us updated on your situation?”

  Lottie’s visible panic transformed into a glow of excitement as she stood to shake my hand. “Yes, of course I will. I’d be happy to. The minute I know anything I will be in touch. Thank you.”

  Looking like someone who’d taken a large bite of an unripe persimmon, Sargeant got up and shook Lottie’s hand. “My office will contact you soon.” He pressed a button to summon Elaine.

  “Thank you again,” she said as Sargeant’s assistant opened the door. “I was so excited to move to California, but now I really hope we get to stay here.”

  From the doorway, Elaine offer
ed a bland smile as she ushered Lottie out. “This way,” she said.

  When Lottie and Elaine were gone, I glanced at my watch. The interview hadn’t run as long as expected, which meant I might even have time to run a comb through my hair before dinner tonight with Gav. “She was great,” I said. “I’m selfishly hoping her house deal falls through.”

  Hands held aloft, Sargeant dropped into his seat with a thud. “Doesn’t that foolish woman realize how much we deal with every single day of our lives? How dare she waste our time when she has no idea if she’ll be able to take the job if offered?” Hands still held high, he shook them. “This isn’t a game we’re playing here. If she couldn’t commit, she should never have agreed to this meeting. How dare she?”

  I sat quietly, watching my former nemesis manage his meltdown. Feisty, short-tempered, and quick to find fault, Sargeant had aggressively nipped at my heels since his first day at the White House. We’d barely tolerated one another for the first couple of years, but after several tense moments that required us to work together in order to survive, we’d achieved a truce. Better than a truce, in my opinion. Though I could have never predicted such a thing, I now considered Sargeant a friend. And though he’d be loath to admit it, I suspected he felt the same.

  “Who hired you?” I asked.

  “What, me?” he asked. He blinked a couple of times as though to reorient himself. “Paul, of course.”

  “What was it like? When you got the call to come interview here? Were you excited? Were you nervous?”

  He leaned forward, wagging a finger at me. “I know what you’re attempting, Ms. Paras,” he said. “It won’t work. We need our employees to be cognizant of how their choices impact others, impact our efficiency, impact the White House itself. This behavior Ms. Catalano displayed—this selfishness—is unacceptable. There’s too much at stake.”

  “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Peter. I don’t blame her for keeping her options open. You know what they say about fortune favoring the bold.”

  “There’s no doubt you ascribe to that sentiment,” he said, but there was no bite to his tone. He waved a hand in front of his face. “She was the best we’ve talked with so far. I suppose we can forgive this indiscretion of hers, but if she’s hired, I will hold you responsible for ensuring she knows not to play fast and loose with us again.”

  “Fast and loose? Really, Peter.”

  Not looking at me, he shrugged, sat back, and vigorously rubbed his chin. “Margaret’s death has hit me harder than I care to admit,” he said quietly. “I fooled myself into believing that we were safe because we work here.”

  I didn’t interrupt, but he waved the air again as though I had.

  “Yes, yes, I’m not dismissing your proclivity to get into trouble. Who could forget any of that?” he asked rhetorically. “And, although it’s easy to cast blame, it wasn’t until you and I found ourselves fighting for our lives together that I began to understand that these things are rarely your fault.” Eyebrow arched, he shot me a pointed look. “Note, I said ‘rarely,’ not ‘never.’”

  “Thanks for understanding,” I said with only a hint of sarcasm.

  “But this,” he said, shaking his head. “What happened to Margaret strikes at the very heart of this house.”

  “Are you sure she was targeted because she worked here?”

  “It’s looking more and more likely though we don’t know for certain. Not yet at least. All we have is speculation.” He heaved a deep sigh. “Maybe Cyan was smart to get out when she did.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” I asked.

  He sat up, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and shook his shoulders. “My apologies, Olivia. It’s been a rough few days.”

  “It has.”

  “Does it get any easier?” he asked.

  I thought about the many times I’d fought for my life. About the people I’d known who’d been hurt or killed along the way. “Not easier. Never easier.”

  His eyes were creased, dark, and pouchy with wrinkles. “I didn’t think so.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Bucky met me at the bottom of the stairway. “Got a call from upstairs,” he said. “Josh wants to know if he can come cook with you this evening.”

  “Tonight?” After the lackluster experience last time, I’d been convinced Josh wouldn’t visit the kitchen again for months. I glanced at my watch.

  “I started to mention the fact that you and Gav had dinner plans, but he sounded weird, so I held off.”

  “He called down to the kitchen himself?” I asked.

  “I thought that was unusual, too, which is why I figured it would be better if you talked with him. I told him you were with Sargeant, but that you’d call as soon as you got back.”

  “That’s odd,” I said. “An assistant usually calls down here on his behalf.”

  “And lately, he cancels last minute.”

  I followed Bucky into the kitchen, where I drummed the countertop and stared down at its shine for a few seconds. “There’s got to be a reason he called out of the blue.” Wrinkling my nose at the clock, I did some mental math. “I can’t turn him down,” I said to Bucky. “Even if it messes up my dinner plans.”

  “You’re a soft touch.”

  “Yeah?” I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Gav. “Don’t let it get out.” When Gav answered I told him the situation and asked if he would mind if we delayed dinner.

  “Wait that long for sustenance?” he asked. “I’m liable to wilt away.”

  “Ha-ha. Do you think Jason will still be able to fit us in?”

  “Leave it to me,” he said. “And good luck with Josh.”

  While I called upstairs to tell Josh I had a free hour, Bucky finished cleaning the kitchen. “Don’t know why I bother if you’re about to mess it all up again,” he said good-naturedly when I hung up.

  “He’ll be down in a couple minutes,” I said. “How did the rest of dinner prep go, by the way?”

  “Smooth as silk,” he said. “And the interview?”

  I turned to our bookshelf, seeking inspiration. “Good,” I said. “I’ll tell you more later. Right now I need to come up with a plan for Josh. Any suggestions?”

  “What about that soup you thought he’d enjoy making? The idea you had the other night?”

  “That’ll take too long.” I tapped fingers against my lips. “I told Gav I’d keep it under an hour. I need something quick yet fun.”

  By the time Josh showed up, I’d pulled out three of my favorite cookbooks. “Hey, Ollie,” he said from the doorway. He raised a hand in greeting and attempted a smile that fell flat.

  “Josh, come on in,” I said. Pointing to the open books strewn across the center workspace, I asked, “Glad we could make tonight work. I have about an hour. What are you in the mood to make?”

  As the Secret Service contingent did their cursory inspection of the kitchen, Bucky lifted his chin in greeting. “Hi, Josh. How’s school?”

  Was it me, or did Josh seem surprised and disappointed to see Bucky there?

  “Good, I guess,” Josh said. He waited for the Secret Service agents to disappear around the corner before making his way over to glance at the books. I was no mind reader, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in the task.

  Bucky and I exchanged a look and I could tell that my assistant had picked up the same vibe I had. He untied his apron and unsnapped his smock. “I hate to leave before the fun begins, but I still haven’t figured out the perfect gift for Brandy. More shopping ahead of me tonight.” He rolled his eyes. “My favorite thing.”

  Josh visibly relaxed. “Good luck,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Bucky replied with a wave. “See you tomorrow, Ollie.”

  The kitchen grew unnaturally quiet as Josh breezed through the cookbooks. He sent furtive glances toward the doorway while flipping pages too quickly to register content.

  I knew his Secret Service bodyguards were probably out of earshot, but I made a spur-of-the
-moment decision and crossed the room to our computer. “Anything catch your eye?” I asked.

  “Um . . . not yet.” When he got to the final page he didn’t push it away and turn to the second book. Instead, he flipped back to the beginning and resumed his mindless paging. “I’m sure there’s something in here . . .”

  Loading a music website, I turned to him. “What do you like? Classic rock? Country? Hip hop? Smooth jazz?”

  His eyes brightened and a corner of his mouth turned up. Still, he shrugged.

  “Okay then,” I said. “You’re stuck with what I pick.” I entered my choice into the search bar: soundtracks from animated features. First up was an Academy Award winner with catchy lyrics and an earworm-worthy tune. Grabbing a giant spoon, I held it like a rock star clutching a microphone. “If you don’t pick something to work on soon, I’m liable to start singing.”

  Finally, a shadow of a smile. Josh sent another quick glance toward the doorway. “Can we turn it a little louder?” he said.

  “You got it.” I turned up the volume, returned the spoon to its place, and took up a position across the workspace from the First Son. Tapping the open book in front of him, I asked, “There’s nothing in there for you today, is there?”

  He pushed the books to the side and leaned forward heavily, resting both elbows on the shiny stainless counter, his gawky maneuvers bringing to mind a collapsed marionette.

  “You don’t have any more of those brownies, do you?” he asked. “To eat, I mean. Not to make.”

  “No brownies, but Marcel has been experimenting with different cupcake combinations this week before holiday entertaining begins in earnest. He left a few samples here for us to taste test.” Opening the small refrigeration unit to my right, I read Marcel’s tiny hand-printed descriptions of each flavor aloud. Josh perked up at the mention of German chocolate.

  “I like coconut,” he said.

  I plated his choice and placed it in front of him. “You need a fork?”

  “Nah,” he said. “I mean: No thank you.”