Fear Familiar Bundle

by Caroline Burnes

  Well, at least the security system doesn't include those horrid, slobbering dogs. At least, not yet.

  Wait a minute, buster! That big black limo almost ran me down. Nobody is supposed to be arriving here tonight. Socks gave the all clear. I'd better hide right here in this old bush and watch for a minute.

  The limo's car tags are covered by red mud. Red mud? This is Washington, not the Deep South. And look, someone is coming along the walkway. A very slender someone wearing a long cloak and hood. I can't make out the features, but the way she walks and moves tells me it's a woman, and some kind of woman. Unconsciously sensual. A glimpse of blond hair, chef suit under the cloak. Yep, this is my quarry. No wonder Socks is fond of her. He's a cat with refined taste.

  Sarah Covington, caterer to the White House.

  Uh-oh, Socks, this don't look good for your girl. She arrives, and they blast out of here like they're on the shuttle schedule to Mars. And now she's preparing to enter the premises. Did she give them some sort of signal? If so, my Trained Observer eyes certainly didn't see it.

  No time for further ruminations. I'd better get in that door before it swings shut on me.

  White House, here I come!

  * * *

  SARAH COVINGTON put one weary foot in front of the other as she walked the short distance from her parking space to the front door of her catering business, A Taste of the South.

  She glanced down at the confectionery cake that adorned the window and felt a sudden lurch in her midsection. The idea of anything sweet made her gag. She'd eaten enough chocolate and sugar during an afternoon of making ten dozen éclairs that if she didn't see chocolate or sugar again— for at least twenty-four hours— she wouldn't care.

  Pulling her keys from her pocket, she opened the door of the catering shop and hurried inside. She groaned aloud, remembering the piles of pots and pans she'd left dirty in the sink when she'd gotten the summons for some emergency assistance to the White House's head chef. Instead of cleaning her own mess, she'd gone to make cream puffs with André. She owed a lot to Chef André. A whole lot.

  Trudging up the stairs, she decided to skip the dirty pans and head straight for the bath. A hot soak and some classical guitar would be the perfect capper for a long day.

  Her apartment above the shop was filled with dark greens and wicker. No matter where Sarah lived, she couldn't leave the color scheme of her Mississippi upbringing very far behind. She put the plug in the old-fashioned bathtub and turned the tap on full-blast. Every day she thanked her lucky stars that Uncle Vince had found her this quaint old building to lease.

  Steam rose from the water as she watched it fill the big tub. Pinning her straight blond hair in a loose bun, she sank into the water up to her chin. Eyes closed, she listened to the music.

  At the sound of a knock she thought she must be mistaken. It was midnight, or later. Who would be knocking at her business door? The pounding grew louder— and more demanding. Sarah sat up in the tub and listened harder. Who could it be? Had something happened to her mother? Or Uncle Vince?

  She dried quickly and slipped into a ratty, gold terry-cloth robe that had been her father's more than twenty years before. It was reprehensible, worn and faded. But she loved it. Barefoot, she ran down the stairs to the front door.

  Through the glass she could see that the man who stood waiting so impatiently was dressed in a suit. He was a very handsome man, and she felt her body tense. Men were trouble, especially good-looking ones. If she never allowed herself to get involved, she'd never have to suffer the consequences. She'd spent years perfecting her defenses, but she couldn't help the jolt of attraction she felt for this stranger. When he finally saw her, he flashed a gold badge up to the window.

  Sarah opened the door the length of the chain. "What do you want?" At the sight of his badge, all thoughts of his good looks had vanished.

  "Are you Sarah Covington?"

  "What do you want?" she repeated. For no reason her heart started pounding. There was something about the man's tone of voice, as if he were accusing her of something. She'd had enough false accusations in the last day or two.

  "I'm Daniel Dubonet, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have some questions for you."

  "Do you realize what time it is?" Sarah felt her temper ignite. What was an FBI agent doing knocking on her door at midnight?

  "I realize the time, Ms. Covington. I would have questioned you at four, or five, or even six or seven. But you haven't been home. Now you are. I only have a few questions, and I've been ordered to get some answers."

  "I'm not answering any questions. I'm going to bed." Sarah pushed the door to close it, but his hand suddenly blocked her.

  "Three people were hospitalized yesterday because they ate something you cooked. Three people out of seventy-five. Three people who were all from the same state, the same city, and the same business. The defense business. Odds like that put it beyond mere coincidence. Would you like to explain that? You can do it now, or you can do it tomorrow when I have a warrant for your arrest."

  "My arrest?" Sarah's bravado and anger fell flat. "But I didn't do anything."

  "Then I suggest you let me in."

  Unlocking the chain, Sarah moved back from the door. As Daniel Dubonet stepped inside the shop, she was acutely aware of his height and immaculate dress. The state of her bathrobe was painful. There were holes in the elbows and the collar was so badly frayed it could hardly be called a collar.

  Dubonet was giving her the once-over with a professional eye that lingered a moment too long on the exposed flesh of her neck. "If you'll excuse me, I'll put on some clothes." Face flushed a becoming pink, she hurried up the stairs before he could approve or disapprove.

  Daniel Dubonet pushed an unruly strand of hair out of his eyes. Damn, but she was a lovely woman. So becomingly disheveled in that old bathrobe. He was only a little ashamed of his strong-arm tactics in forcing his way into the shop. He'd been waiting for more than seven hours to talk with Sarah Covington. As an FBI agent, this wasn't even his turf. It was because of some kind of special favor to the Secret Service that he'd been sent to question Chef Covington. A special favor he'd drawn because he was in the doghouse with his superiors for his smart mouth. He wanted this interview over and done, even if he had to do it at midnight.

  He could see the wet footprints Sarah had left on the floor. High instep, he noted automatically. She'd looked so frightened when he'd said arrest. And he'd exaggerated the charges a little. Well, a lot.

  He heard her return and was caught by her lack of pretense as she came downstairs in deck shoes, jeans and a sweatshirt. She hadn't bothered to unpin her hair, but a lot of it was falling down her back. She had the bluest eyes he'd seen in a long while. The distant memory of his grandmother and a song she often sang about a girl with cornflower eyes made him smile. One day, when he got ready to settle down, he'd like to know a woman who looked like Sarah. Her voice interrupted his thoughts.

  "I'm tired and I need some caffeine. Would you like some coffee? Or are you afraid I might poison you?" She was shocked at her own words, but she knew it was a reaction to her initial attraction to him. Now she was determined to be as cutting as possible.

  "No, thanks." Dubonet looked around the shop. It was a small area with neat black-and-white tiles and a tidy display counter. Swinging doors hid what was obviously the kitchen. There were several books of color photographs showing Sarah's work in all types of food. Barbecues, formal dinners, teas. "How long have you been a chef?"

  "I got my degree ten years ago." She twirled a strand of hair between her thumb and finger.

  "And your license?"

  "In Washington, two years ago."

  "I imagine it's a very competitive business here."

  It was a question without being a question. "Very. Lucky for me I have friends in high places." She disliked his implications, and her quick tongue formed the sarcastic reply before she could stop herself.

  "High enough so that they would
benefit from the serious illness or death of three businessmen from Mississippi? Three men heavily involved in defense contracts?"

  "Not that high." She kept the anger out of her voice. "Whatever those men ate that put them in the hospital, it didn't come from my food. I served the same entrée to everyone. And I know, because I personally prepared the plates."

  "But you didn't deliver them to the table, did you?"

  "I did not, but the woman who did is my friend. If you think she did something to injure a client of mine, you're aiming at the moon. She's practically worked for free to help me make a go of this business."

  Dubonet nodded. Her righteous defense of her employee made him want to smile. She was furious.

  "I'd like a list of the ingredients you used and where you purchased them."

  "Easy enough." Sarah motioned him to a desk behind the counter. "Have a seat, Mr…."

  "Dubonet," he supplied.

  "Dubonet. I'll find a menu and make up a list of all ingredients. I can even tell you where I bought them. Has anyone determined exactly what made the three gentlemen sick?" She held her pencil aloft as she waited for his answer.

  "Not exactly. It seems to be some type of chemical or something of that nature." He was not being deliberately vague. As sophisticated as the FBI lab was, they hadn't been able to pin it down exactly. This was a weak point in his case, and he knew it. All three men were staying at the same hotel. He'd been cautioned that whatever had sickened them might have been inhaled rather than eaten. His interview with Sarah was basically a matter of covering all possibilities. He just didn't want her to know that. Years of experience had taught him that it was best to keep as many people off balance as possible during an investigation.

  Sarah saw his evasiveness as deliberate. So, there was some hesitation about making an outright accusation against her. It was the best news she'd had in the past twenty-four hours, ever since she'd learned that the three businessmen had been hospitalized shortly after the dinner she'd served.

  "Let's see now. The menu is right here." She lifted a sheet of paper from a file. "Pork tenderloin." She started to rattle off the ingredients, making notes of them as she talked. "Sweet potato soufflé." She ran rapid-speed down the list.

  Daniel checked his watch. There were a million ingredients, and judging by the sound of it, she shopped all over the city. This was going to take the rest of the night.

  "Now for the desserts. I served three. There was banana pudding, pound cake with fresh peaches, and cherry cream cheese tarts. The ingredients are…"

  He sighed softly to himself. Funny, but just listening to her talk, he was beginning to feel the definite stirrings of an appetite. And it wasn't for food. He could almost taste her lips. He looked at Sarah as she mumbled the ingredients more to herself than to him and made her careful list. How did she remember all of those things? She was describing the peaches she'd used in the recipe, completely unaware of how closely her complexion resembled that of a peach. A perfect peach.

  He snatched his attention away from such thoughts and focused once again on the list. It was now two pages long.

  "That's it." She handed it over to him. "Is there anything else?"

  "Did you know any of the businessmen?"

  "No."

  "How did you get hired as a caterer to the White House?"

  "What exactly is that supposed to mean?" She felt her temper kindle. She'd worked her butt off, and no one was going to imply otherwise. She could bite off her own tongue for that earlier comment about friends in high places.

  "I mean, Washington is a very political city. Jobs like this one are usually given because of a friend." He watched the blank look settle over her face as she fought to control her temper. "You know perfectly well what I'm saying." He felt his own temper rise. She was acting deliberately obtuse.

  "I have no political connections, Mr. Dubonet. I'm a good cook, and I do a good job. That's how I got work at the White House. Call Chef André. He'll vouch for my abilities."

  "You may be an excellent chef, but you also have to have some kind of pull." Daniel wasn't about to back down.

  "The suggestion that I've used some underhanded— "

  "Whoa!" Daniel held up both hands in an act of surrender. The sudden brightness of tears in her eyes made him realize how personally she'd taken his question. "I did not imply you did anything underhanded. This is a town where pull is part of the natural order of things. Most people here are proud of whatever pull they have."

  "I'm a very good chef. That's what I'm proud of, Mr. Dubonet. I was lucky to get an opportunity, but it was my skill that got me work as a caterer. Not anything else." Her voice softened as she finished.

  No matter how she denied it, he was still certain that someone had spoken to someone about her. That was simply the way it worked in Washington, but he didn't have to press it with her. At least not now. "I have the ingredients— " he lifted the list, staggered again by the sheer volume of it "— so I'd better be going."

  "Those men did not get sick because of something I prepared." Sarah rose as he did. "If there was any foul play with my food, I would have known it."

  He evaluated that statement as he tucked the list into the pocket of his jacket. "I believe that." She babbled on about recipes, but she was nobody's fool. Intelligence shimmered in her eyes, as visible as the tears had been earlier.

  "Where were you so late tonight?" He asked the question almost as an afterthought.

  "It really isn't any of your business, but I'll tell you. And, yes, Chef André can corroborate my statement." She didn't try to hide the sting of sarcasm. "I was at the White House finishing up chocolate éclairs for a dinner tomorrow."

  "Do you often work in the White House kitchens?"

  "It depends. Many times I cater events which are only a peripheral part of some White House function."

  "Like the businessmen's dinner?"

  "Right. But there are times when Chef André is making something special, something that he knows I've done before."

  "Like cream puffs."

  "Exactly." She drew a breath and hesitated. "I've been thinking about what you said about pull, and I guess you're right."

  He waited. Damned if she wasn't acting as if she was confessing to the Lindbergh kidnapping.

  "Chef André is from New Orleans. As you probably know, if you've done your homework, I grew up not very far from the Louisiana line. My parents or an old family friend often took me to New Orleans for lunch or dinner." She took another breath and continued staring at some spot on the floor near Daniel's feet. "I met Chef André when I was a little girl, and even then I wanted to be a chef. He let me play in the kitchen in his restaurant. He encouraged me, and through the years he's continued to be supportive." She looked up. "When I decided to move to Washington, he didn't say he would throw some White House work my way, but I know he must have done something. As you say, there are plenty of talented chefs in this city."

  The long, unwilling confession made him want to reach out and touch her peachy soft cheek. She was refreshingly sincere. "It isn't a crime to have people recognize your talent and recommend you." He spoke before he even thought of what he was saying.

  "The way you said it made it sound…dirty."

  Daniel Dubonet was a man who believed in hunches, and one struck him hard. Something in Sarah Covington's past made her sensitive to any accusations of wrongdoing. Overly sensitive. In some people that was a sign of guilt. In others, it was a sign of low self-esteem. Which was it in Sarah Covington's case?

  "If I have any questions, I'll be back." He walked to the door.

  "In that case, I hope I won't be seeing you again." Sarah unlocked the door and held it open. It had been a long night, and the conversation with Daniel Dubonet had taken the last bit of energy from her. She wanted him gone.

  "Sorry to disturb you." He walked out into the chill Washington night.

  Sarah locked the door behind him and watched him walk under the streetlight.
Why was it that handsome men only came to her door to start trouble or to eat? She sighed as she flipped off the lights and started up to bed. The pots could wait until morning.

  * * *

  FOR A WOMAN who cooks all day like a fiend, Sarah Covington keeps an active nightlife. Who is that man in the expensive suit and fine leather shoes leaving her business? Even more important, what is Agent 009 doing standing on a cold street corner in front of a catering shop? I'll bet there are some delicacies in that joint that would tempt even the most finicky kitty palate.

  It's been a long but interesting evening. My first trip to the White House, and I discover nothing except puff pastries, rich cream and chocolate to die for. Whatever Sarah was up to with the limo, it didn't prevent her from finishing her cream puff duties. And then she left for home. I had to leave, too. Socks warned me that the security forces keep a close eye on the kitchen because of the high traffic there. A stray cat could be in big trouble, and we're not talking a lecture. We're talking kitty incarceration and deportation. So I skedaddled when Sarah did. Poor thing, she was so tired she didn't even notice me.

  I, Trained Observer that I am, got to take some meticulous notes on her, though. She's a doll. China-blue eyes, blond hair that begs to be stroked, and legs that go on forever. When she came down those stairs in that repugnant bathrobe, I forgot all about her lack of taste in clothes when I saw those legs. If she ever decides to give up the oven, she should go to the stage. She could be an honorary Rockette, even if she can't dance.

  Ah, humans are not always smart, but the female of the species has some admirable qualities. That's not to say that any gam on the biped species could compare to the tiniest toe of my Clotilde, but as a cat of the world, I can appreciate form and beauty. Besides, this dolly can cook. I think I'm going to enjoy this assignment, once I figure out how to get an invitation to A Taste of the South.

  That's my chore for tomorrow. Now I have to rush back to Pennsylvania Avenue and the digs Eleanor and Peter are renting for the fall. Ever since someone bombed their home, they've been moving around a bit. And Peter's not sure how long we'll be in the city this time. That means fast action and foolproof results. I suppose I'm going to have to take up jogging again.