“Drink some more brandy. It cures just about anything,” Annie said solicitously. “Maybe Maggie can contact her . . . that person who does all those illegal things when she returns. If he had the expertise to hack into the Witness Protection Program without anyone finding out, this should be . . . what’s that expression? Oh, yes, a walk in the park.”
Nikki, knowing the full story on Abner Tookus and Maggie’s love-hate relationship, shook her head. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Then how about Bert and Jack going to the director of the FBI? They saved his butt not too long ago, and Yantzy owes them. Yantzy should know who that person is if he heads up the FBI. For that matter, Bert might even know,” Kathryn said. She looked at Nellie and said, “Do you think Elias might know? He was Bert’s predecessor.”
Nellie shrugged. “I can ask, but I doubt it. I don’t think anyone except the president would know something like that. Maybe one other person on her staff or someone who used to be on her staff. Someone she trusts one hundred percent.”
As one, the girls said, “Lizzie!”
“But,” Myra said, holding up her hand, “doesn’t that come under the heading of attorney-client privilege or president-attorney privilege or something like that? Maybe national security?”
Myra’s words and tone of voice were so fretful, Annie took a swipe at her. “Earth to Myra. And if that is the case, do you think that will stop us from getting the information from Lizzie? Lizzie is one of us, or did you forget that?”
Sensing a revolt coming her way, Myra backpedaled. “All right, all right, I foolishly misspoke. Please forgive me, one and all.”
“That’s all right, dear,” Annie said, patting Myra’s shoulder. “We all have these little lapses from time to time. Tomorrow morning, we call Lizzie and ask her what, if anything, she knows in regard to secret funds. Agreed?”
Every hand in the room shot high in the air, including Myra’s.
“See how easy that was,” Annie said airily. “More brandy, Myra?”
Myra nodded.
“On the off chance that Lizzie doesn’t know, we need a second source. This is what I suggest. Since I personally stabilized and made Maggie’s contact person rich beyond his dreams, not to mention that he owns oceanfront property thanks to my generosity, I think it might behoove us all, and I do mean us all, to visit the gentleman and show him the way we do things. Agreed?”
Once again, every hand in the room shot up.
Annie upended the brandy bottle and proceeded to pour. Miffed at what she thought was a stingy amount coming out of the bottle, the irrepressible Nellie bounded off her chair and headed directly to the wine rack. “When I say pour, I mean pour!”
Annie poured and poured some more.
And that was how Fergus Duffy and the others found the ladies a long time later, soused, as he put it, to the ears and feeling no pain as they laughed and giggled and congratulated each other on what they were going to do in the morning.
Feeling no pain himself, Jack Emery looked at his lovely wife, who was trying to wink at him, and said, “Boys, don’t even go there! This is one of those things that simply never happened.” He turned on his heel to back out of the kitchen, bumped into Ted Robinson, who went ass over backward, knocking Elias into Fergus, who was already unsteady on his feet, and who then rolled over, tripping Bert, who tried to leap out of the way but collided with Harry, who went airborne. Espinosa was the only man left standing.
“Well, this certainly is going to be a memory I can take back to Scotland with me,” Fergus bellowed.
In the kitchen, the brandy bottles lined up like soldiers, Myra tried counting them but gave up. “I have to say, Countess de Silva, you do know how to throw a Thanksgiving dinner.” At which point she slid off her chair and went to sleep.
The others peered down at her and sighed as they joined her.
Annie was the last to cradle her head in her arms. To no one in particular, she muttered, “This was one hell of a Thanksgiving.”
Chapter 11
Maggie crawled out of bed before she even looked at the little travel clock she had brought with her. Five forty-five! For some reason, she’d thought she would sleep in since she was at such a famous place and on a minivacation of sorts; but years of rising before the sun came over the horizon was such a habit, here she was, wide awake with absolutely nothing to do and nowhere really to go. She wished she was back in her newly purchased home in Georgetown.
With nothing better to do, she showered and washed her hair. She even put on makeup. To impress Gus Sullivan and his dog. Somehow, she managed to tame her wild hair with a handful of gel and some hair spray before she tied it all back with a green ribbon to match her designer T.J. Maxx discount sweats. At the last second, she spritzed some perfume that claimed if she wore it, men would drop at her feet. She wasn’t hopeful, since she’d been wearing it for years, and a man had yet to drop at her feet. Ted didn’t count, since he was the one who gave her the perfume in the first place, and he was immune to the scent.
In the kitchen of her cabin, she made coffee. While it dripped into the pot, she tried to see outside in the semidarkness. She could see snow flurries swirling about from the glow of the outside lampposts, but the accumulation didn’t appear to be more than four inches or so, if that. She knew that McLean, where Myra and Annie lived in Virginia, had gotten eight inches of snow. She’d stayed up late enough to get the weather report.
Maggie peered at the coffeepot. It still wasn’t ready, so she went back to her room for her notebook and pen. By the time she got back, the coffee was ready to be poured. She settled herself and started to make notes. She was there for a reason. Now, if she could just figure out what that reason was, she would be one happy camper.
She leaned back on the cozy leather window seat and closed her eyes. Think! And she did think, but her thoughts were on Gus Sullivan and their meeting and how fast her heart beat at that meeting and how dry her throat was. She’d just fallen in love with a man in a wheelchair, and that wasn’t a bad thing. In fact it said a whole lot for her that she could fall in love with a handicapped person. A temporarily handicapped person, who perhaps would regain the use of his legs. And if he didn’t, she’d still love him, anyway. Maggie Spritzer, I am so proud of you.
Maggie tried once again to focus on the task at hand. She made four columns of names before getting up to replenish her coffee. The men from the different security agencies abroad went in one column. The different U.S. officials went into the second column, and the third column was made up of people like herself; Jason Parker; Gus Sullivan; the retired teacher of the year, five years running, from Bangor, Maine; a college boy from Virginia Tech who’d saved two little girls from being abducted, taken them to the police station, and walked away, saying anyone would have done the same thing. The fourth column was for the press. Whom she had yet to see. No red flags there.
No red flags my foot. They’re there. I just can’t spot them.
She struggled to remember what she knew about the U.S. officials who were there. Didn’t they have families? Why would they give up a family Thanksgiving at home to come here to Camp David? Was it a command invitation? And if it was a command invitation, why? Why Thanksgiving weekend? No one would notice? The media wouldn’t care? Unlikely. The media did care.
Maybe since she was the EIC of the Post, she could cozy up to one or more of them to get their take on things. Professional courtesy, that kind of thing. Then again, maybe not since she was a guest. She wondered what kind of spin the media would put on the Camp David guest list.
Maggie doodled in her notebook as she tried to come to terms with the four columns of names. As far as she could tell, all she had was the names of a bunch of people who decided that eating Thanksgiving dinner at Camp David was better than staying home. The security people from abroad were understandable. What wasn’t understandable was the U.S. officials.
Maggie underlined the words command performance. She looked do
wn into her empty coffee cup as she debated whether or not to drink another cup. If she did, she’d be twitching and twanging all over the place and having to pee every ten minutes. She doodled some more before she got up to clean the coffeepot for the next guest.
By the time she had finished with her uncharacteristic cleanup, it was full light. The world outside glistened and sparkled. Before she could change her mind, she took her notebook back to her room, put on her heavy jacket, and walked outside. She was just in time to see a golf cart stop at Gus Sullivan’s cabin. She plowed through the snow lickety-split and came to a bracing stop just as Gus hit the last step. “Mind if I tag along?” she asked breathlessly.
Gus’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “I’d like the company, but you’ll have to walk since they need to put my chair in the back. Isn’t it beautiful?” he asked, waving his arm about. “When I was in Iraq, I used to dream about mornings like this.”
The marine driving the golf cart drove slowly so that Maggie could keep up with them. She was winded from the cold air when they reached the dining hall in Laurel Cabin, but at the same time she felt exhilarated.
The dining room for guests was virtually empty, yet it smelled wonderful. Breakfast was her favorite meal of the day. After lunch and dinner. She wondered if her obsession with food would make a difference to Gus Sullivan.
With two more cups of coffee under her belt along with a gigantic breakfast, Maggie felt on top of the world. “The day after Thanksgiving at Camp David!” Now that was a profound statement if she had ever uttered one. “What’s on your agenda, Gus?”
“Therapy. It’s ongoing and never-ending. I was hoping for some kind of tour. One of the marines told me this afternoon was picture-taking time with the president. So there’s that. Tonight is dinner with the president. Other than that, I plan on reading some of the books on Camp David that are in my cabin. What are your plans?”
“About the same as yours. I’m going to walk a bit, see what I can see myself. I like being alone with my thoughts in strange places. I also want to hook up with some of the press and see what their take is on this weekend. Then like you said, we get our pictures taken with the president. A personal one-on-one, then a group shot of all us outsiders. I think I’ll run them in the paper when I get back. Human interest, that kind of thing.”
They talked about the paper, what it was like to be the editor in chief of such a famous newspaper, the paper that had almost single-handedly exposed the Watergate shenanigans. Her heart kicked up a beat when Gus said, “What was it like when you were covering the vigilantes? My whole unit couldn’t wait to read about them. It was like one of those serial movies you watched when you were a kid. That’s another way of saying, we all rooted for them, especially the women. When we heard that the president pardoned them, we had a party. Actually, the officers threw it, but no one is supposed to know that.”
Maggie chose her words carefully. “It was interesting. I can’t tell you how many times my e-mail server crashed, along with our switchboard, with supporters calling in to voice their opinions.”
“You’re friends with them, then?”
Another quick heartbeat. Maggie found herself studying the man she had just fallen in love with. She didn’t see anything to alarm her. “In a manner of speaking. My people have gotten some exclusives with them. The Post’s readership doubled when they were active.”
Gus seemed to accept Maggie’s explanation. “Since I got back, my only pastime other than therapy has been to read. I read your newspaper line by line, word for word, page by page. Then I quiz myself on what I read. I don’t mean online, either. I like holding the paper in my hand, and I regret the absence of ink on my hands when I’m done, the way it used to be. The funny thing is, I was never much of a reader. I was always doing something I thought was more important. Since I’ve been back, I think I know how Washington works.” He rolled his eyes, and Maggie laughed.
“Oh, look, here’s your friend, and my nurse is signaling me that it’s time to go. If you want to stop by, feel free. I’m done with morning therapy around eleven. Today is range of motion.”
Before Maggie could agree or disagree, Gus was steering his chair across the dining-room floor, and Jason Parker plopped down next to her.
Maggie had to fight with herself to be civil. She did her best to smile. “Good morning, Jason.”
“I don’t see what’s good about it. Didn’t you see that snow out there? It rather hampers one’s day, don’t you think?”
Maggie stretched her neck to peer down at Jason’s feet and the expensive Bally shoes he was wearing. She pointed to her own stout boots. “I think I told you this wasn’t a fashion party. Your attire is about as out of place here as tits on a bull.”
Jason winced. “I lost my notebook. By any chance did you see it?”
“No. What does it look like?”
“One of those little ones that were in the cabin. The complimentary ones. I made some notes in it.”
“Nope, didn’t see it.”
Maggie thought Jason looked upset. She wondered what kind of notes a moneyman such as he would have made. She almost asked but changed her mind.
“Since you seem to have appointed yourself the head of the fashion police, what do you think I should wear for the formal picture? I guess what I’m asking is, what are you going to wear?” Jason asked.
“What difference does it make what I wear?” Maggie said, deliberately not answering Jason’s question.
“Well, since you brought me as your guest, I thought we should have a picture taken together.”
A very unladylike sound erupted from Maggie’s mouth. “Well, you thought wrong, Jason. Look, this is the way it is. I’m sorry I brought you here with me. You set me up back at the paper, and we both know it, so don’t deny it. I don’t know what your endgame is, but I’m not willing to be a part of it. I will admit you bedazzled me there for a little while, but it did not take long for that bedazzlement to fly out the window. So do us both a favor and stay away from me. I’m surprised you aren’t out there hanging with the press.”
One look at Jason’s face told her he’d already tried that and either been rebuffed or unable to get access to them. She laughed as she gathered up her jacket and slipped into it.
“You are so hateful, Maggie Spritzer.” Jason turned his back on her and motioned to the steward that he was ready to order.
Outside in the brisk air, Maggie took a great gulping breath. The wind was blustery, and it was hard to tell if the snow she was seeing was actually flurries or the wind blowing the snow from the trees and shrubs. She walked with her head down. When she got to Holly Cabin, she bolted up the steps and raced inside. Even though she had to go to the bathroom, she took the time to look around to see if she could spot the notebook Jason claimed to have lost. It took her ten minutes before she found the little notebook wedged between the sofa cushions in the main living area. Too pat. Too obvious. If she found it, why couldn’t Jason find it? She jammed the little book into the pocket of her sweats, raced to the bathroom, then into her room, where she locked the door. She pulled out the notebook and looked down at Jason Parker’s squiggles. Three pages of nothing but initials, or what she assumed were initials, then question marks. GS had to mean Gus Sullivan. MS had to mean Maggie Spritzer. She closed her eyes and let her mind roam to the other line of initials. The U.S. contingent, all present and accounted for. Only one question mark, next to JJ, whoever JJ was. She racked her brain. No one that she knew of had the initials JJ. The European contingent, all initials present and accounted for. Ditto for the outsiders.
Jason’s squiggles—his printing was tiny, a sign of an introvert. Or so she’d heard. Jason Parker, in her opinion, was not an introvert. The question now was, should she tell Jason she had found the notebook and hand it over or keep it to herself until she could figure out what he was up to? Well, that was a no-brainer. She shoved the notebook with the presidential seal on the cover into her pocket.
&nb
sp; She was about to leave her room when the word setup ricocheted through her being. She whipped out her own notebook and proceeded to copy, as best she could, what she was seeing in Jason’s notebook. When she was finished, she checked it again, line by line, squiggly letter by letter. When she was satisfied that she had it down right, she marched out to the huge family area. A steward was replenishing the dying fire. She sat down on the nubby wheat-colored sofa and wedged the little notebook down between the cushions, just the way she had found it. “Screw you, Jason Parker,” she mumbled under her breath.
The other guests were stirring now; she could hear chatter from down the hall. The retired teacher, for some reason, had a shrill, high-pitched voice. How did that go over in a classroom? she wondered. The student from Virginia Tech barreled through the room on his way to the door. He noticed Maggie and said, “Dining is at the Laurel Lodge, right?”
Maggie nodded. She got up and headed back to her room, where she sat down in a comfortable rocker with a wonderful outside view of the snow-covered fairyland also known as Camp David. She needed to think.
Forty minutes later, with no further insight, Maggie gathered up her small backpack and her jacket. Her destination, Sycamore Cabin, to which the press corps had been assigned.
Just as she reached the door, a marine was about to enter the cabin. “Miss Spritzer, the president asked me to give this to you. I’m to wait for your verbal reply.”
Maggie walked back inside and opened the envelope just as Jason Parker blew through the door. “Whatcha got there, Maggie?”
“None of your business,” Maggie shot back. She looked down at the handwritten note asking if Maggie would be available for a private lunch at one o’clock. Maggie took her time folding up the note and slipping it into her small backpack. “Tell the president I would be delighted.” A second later, the marine was gone, and Maggie was left standing next to Jason Parker.
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