by P. N. Elrod
“Well,” I said, hauling the wheel around to take us back to the city, “accidents happen.”
* * * * * * *
__________
IZZY’S SHOE–IN
Author’s Note: Another invitation from friend, author, and editor Carole Nelson Douglas resulted in this non-supernatural romp for WHITE HOUSE PET DETECTIVES for Cumberland House. This introduces Izzy DeLeon, fearless girl reporter, who later shares the action with vampires Jack Fleming and Jonathan Barrett in THE DEVIL YOU KNOW from Vampwriter Books. Some of the events in this story did occur; a female reporter invaded the Hoover White House disguised as a Girl Scout, and Allen Hoover, the very handsome first son, did keep such pets!
Washington D.C. 1933
At five-foot nothing in her flats, Izzy DeLeon was the tallest of the troop of Girl Scouts milling around her. At twenty-one, she was the oldest by ten years, but trusted that her uniform would provide all the cover required for her invasion of the White House. There was safety in numbers, and she counted four full troops gathered by the iron gates awaiting admittance to the grounds. In a hundred girls the chances of her being spotted as the cuckoo in the nest were small so long as she kept moving.
It worked well; she circulated unobtrusively until the adults called for order and they smartly marched toward the sweeping curved steps to the South Portico. There they stood under the big awnings. Scant protection against the summer sun, Izzy felt the oppressive heat sucking the energy from her. The other girls were as lively as sparrows.
A gap-toothed waif of eleven gave Izzy a curious stare. For an instant she wondered if she’d missed a spot when scrubbing her face clean of makeup. Would a lingering hint of powder or lip rouge betray her?
The girl said, “That’s a lot of badges.”
Izzy glanced down at her shoulder sash, which was covered with a number of merit badges, all of which held little meaning to her. Where she’d grown up you didn’t earn such things, you learned those skills to survive. “I guess so,” she admitted, pitching her voice high.
“You got a cold?” the girl asked sharply. The troops were here to sing patriotic songs to the president and first lady. Any Scout with a cold would be unwelcome in the chorus.
Shaking her head vehemently, Izzy then shrugged. “I talk funny, but sing just fine. My mom told me.”
The girl looked dubious and turned away. Good. The less contact the better. Izzy had flattened her chest with bandaging, thrust her size six feet into size five shoes, and bitten her nails down to look right for the part. The uniform offered perfect protection from the adults, but not kids. One observant little girl could raise the alarm and bring an arrest, and Izzy doubted her editor would be sympathetic enough to bail her out.
Stick to fashion stories, Isabelle. You’re female, write female-stuff, he’d say, then send her off to cover a daffodil festival or some other dullness.
Teeth grinding, she dutifully cranked out copy since that was her job, but craved more exciting, germane, interesting things to write. She’d not fought her way out of the lazy swamps of Florida, earned a scholarship, and worked hand over fist for a journalism degree merely to make a living. Izzy planned to be more than a reporter; she would be a world-famous journalist, destined for honors, applause, and the respect of her peers. . .if she could just get away from daffodil festivals.
The only way to prove herself worthy of an assignment with real meat to it was to go hunting for one. But strangely, in the heart of Washington, D.C., in the swirl of politics and the passionate vituperations resulting from the clash of one party against another, that proved frustratingly difficult. Requests to interview a senator or congressman always landed her in a parlor with their wives, sipping tea. While she managed to make enough copy to please her editor, those encounters had no national importance. The few wives who would speak to her were concerned with matters like raising children in the public eye or promoting their favorite charity and, in one case, sharing a special fudge recipe. Laudable, but not what Izzy wanted.
But when Herbert Hoover took office, she mounted a more active campaign on the White House itself. Even if she was fobbed off to Mrs. Hoover, Izzy would count that as a victory. Lou Henry Hoover was extremely well-educated and had traveled around the world with her engineer husband. She spoke five languages fluently, had received medals from other countries for her charity work, survived the Boxer Rebellion—surely she would have tales with real weight to share with the American public.
But after five months of sending in requests, it became more clear with each polite refusal (carefully typed on White House stationery and personally signed by the first lady) that though a gracious hostess, Mrs. Hoover shunned the spotlight. She was inordinately modest about her many accomplishments—unless it had to do with the Girl Scouts.
Having served as their national president, raising membership from a ten thousand to over a million girls, she was always ready to talk about them—and entertain them. Thus Izzy hatched her idea to get inside the great sanctum. A routine interview with one of the Scout mistresses sparked things. The woman had proudly mentioned her troop’s upcoming visit to the White House and the whole scheme burst upon Izzy’s mind in a flash brilliant enough to impress even Edison.
She bought the largest-sized scout uniform available at a local department store, a tight fit but manageable. With the connivance of a slightly-misled janitor at the local Girl Scout Little House (she bitterly claimed her baby sister had forgotten everything), Izzy got the Scout’s schedule, and managed to blend in with the crowd of girls. There had been a few hair-raising moments when she thought one or another of the Scout mistresses had spotted her, but nothing came of it. As she’d hoped, each must have thought her to be with a different troop. Now she was only yards from the great oval of the Blue Room. Even coming this far would make a story, but to finally get inside. . .there. . .she spotted movement beyond the sheer curtains of the French doors: people shifting about in the shaded interior.
The girls were restless with curiosity, some jumping up to better see. Izzy missed Mrs. Hoover’s entrance; had she opened the doors for herself or did one of her four secretaries do the honors or was it a servant? Details like that made interesting color.
Wearing a cotton dress with a green tint similar to the uniforms, Mrs. Hoover greeted the Scout leaders and troops with a friendly smile. She had pronounced eyebrows and a firm mouth. The smile softened her looks, made her more homey. She proceeded them, leading the way through the Blue Room to a wide, pillar-lined hall, taking their giddy, shuffling parade to the right. They ended up in the vast East Room where their concert would take place. Everyone milled through. Though told to be quiet and respectful of the surroundings, the girls gave in to enthusiasm, squealing at the wide echoing indoor space and impressive decor, which included a grand piano. It was irresistible.
Izzy hung back as much as she dared, torn between the desire to hear everything Mrs. Hoover might utter and the need to look into forbidden areas. Her chance came when a dozen girls surged toward the piano. The room resonated with loud and inexpert renderings—no, make that random pounding upon the presidential keys, much to the delight of the rest. More squeals, screams, and laughter followed. Control was quickly restored, but by then Izzy had slipped unobtrusively through a door at the southern end while the servants and Secret Service man were distracted.
She was in the Green Room, and it was thankfully empty. She counted herself lucky to find it unlocked, but part of the Scouts’ visit was to include a tour of the public areas. It must have been left open in anticipation of that. Faced with a choice of five doors, she picked the opposite left, which brought her back to the Blue Room. Some people were talking at the northernmost end of its oval, but no one paid attention as she hurried across and breached the entry to the Red Room.
It was empty, lighted only by the hot summer sunshine pouring through the open windows. Izzy found herself breathless more from excitement than the muggy afternoon heat. She’d hardly hoped
to make it this far. If nothing else she would have an excellent piece about the lack of security within the house. Wouldn’t that bowl everyone over? The nation’s president vulnerable in the most famous house in America. . .of course he wasn’t in this part at the moment, but there was a principle at stake here, and under the byline of Isabelle DeLeon, Izzy would triumphantly shout it forth.
She wanted more to shout about, though, and to do that required gaining the private quarters in the floors above. What little she knew of the public areas led her to believe access could be made through first the State, then the Family dining rooms. Heart in throat, she set forth.
* * *
As with many situations in life, it is far easier to land oneself into a predicament than to make a successful extraction from its coils. Thus did Izzy find herself crouched down behind a bamboo chair surrounded by potted palm trees in a sunlit room that should have been an upstairs hall. This wasn’t on the diagram Izzy had gotten from one of her contacts, a maid who had worked here during the Coolidge administration.
Mrs. Hoover had been inordinately busy redecorating the family’s private quarters, and she possessed firm, if exotic ideas on how to go about it. The fan-shaped floor-to-ceiling window at the far end washed the room with light, mitigated only slightly by an enormous bird cage full of frantically chirping canaries. Palms, ferns, and other plants loomed everywhere, bamboo furniture rested comfortably on a rattan rug, oriental vases dotted tables and shelves. It would have been a most pleasant place to relax under any other circumstances, but Izzy in her overly tight shoes and constricting, hot uniform was anything but comfortable. She was supposed to be gathering news to report, not hiding like a fugitive.
She had just been sneaking into what she thought was the president’s own bedroom when a bell abruptly sounded, making three sharp rings. Not knowing if it was a fire drill or a burglar alarm, Izzy let instinct take charge and ran quick as scat down the hall, diving for the nearest cover. For the last half hour she had to hold perfectly still, which was becoming more difficult with the cramps shooting up her legs from her outraged feet. She pushed the pain aside, though, for the president himself sat within spitting distance of her hiding place. He and another man were in deep conversation, and though close, Izzy had to strain to hear them. President Hoover was infamous for mumbling into his tie, and she only caught bits and pieces of their talk.
“You’ll want to watch yourself, Allan,” he said. “I’ve warned them time and again that buying on margin will lead to trouble. I hope you’ll advise your school friends to not take any such risks on the market.”
The reply was lost to her, the other man was busy with the canaries, and their noise and flapping swallowed his words. Izzy couldn’t believe her luck. Not only was she overhearing the president, but a private chat between the president and his son, Allan. Wasn’t he supposed to be at Harvard? He must have come home for a summer visit.
“—really can’t say much about anything, or they’ll think you’re trying to influence the market through me,” he replied over his shoulder. Izzy could barely make out his form through the palm fronds. He looked to be as tall as his father, nearly six feet, and would probably fill out into the same strong huskiness.
The president lighted a large cigar, releasing a cloud of blue smoke. “I know. We must never misuse this office, or even appear to misuse it. It only fuels those Democrat-controlled rags. The way they natter on, you’d think I was the Communist. The things I’m accused of is beyond tolerance. Lies, all of it rubbish and lies.”
“Don’t pay any mind to them,” said Allan. “They’re always going to be whipping up something out of nothing to sell more papers. Criticism is the best way to do it. You’d think those blasted hack reporters had better things to do with their time—like going after that bootlegging Kennedy clan.”
Both men chuckled.
Izzy set her mouth, used to the endless fencing match that existed between politicians and the press. Each needed the other much the same as a rhinoceros needed a tick bird. Well, she was anything but some hack reporter. She was after a real story, and this was it: the Hoovers at home, a warm, caring family of true public servants with a disliking for Democrats, Communists. . .and a predilection for canaries.
And dogs. Uh-oh. Izzy froze even more, if that was possible, as a couple of completely gigantic police dogs bounded into the room, one dark, the other white. Allan and his father greeted them, but some kind of altercation broke out with the animals, requiring sharp commands from both men to restore order.
“They just don’t mix,” said Mr. Hoover. “Better get those two out of here.”
“The dogs?”
“Yes, the dogs, at least they know how to obey a command. They work better with the help around here than your herd.”
Allan laughed and set about removing the dogs, calling for King Tut and Snowboy to make a quick exit. They reluctantly complied. Izzy breathed soft relief; she’d been terrified the dogs would sense her presence.
“I don’t know how you manage to keep those things from eating everything in sight,” Hoover admonished.
“They’re not so much trouble,” said Allan. “You should be around when I toss them raw chicken. Mother would stop complaining about how fast you eat.”
“Just mind that they don’t scare the servants.”
“If I ever see any. Every time a bell goes off around here they’re popping into closets like jack-in-the boxes in reverse. I wish you’d get over your dislike of dealing with them. They’re only just people after all.”
His father mumbled something in which the word privacy figured, and Allan Hoover chuckled.
So that explained the ringing alarm and why she’d not seen anyone. Izzy had no need to take notes, this was too completely extraordinary to forget.
“How did your downstairs concert go?” Allan asked.
“Fine, fine. Cheered your mother up. She does enjoy seeing all those bright faces. I think she’d like to be president of them again, given the chance, but she knows she can do more from here than any other place. Oh, get off, you overgrown newt! Look at that. He’s trying to eat my shoe!”
Allan laughed again—what a cheerful sort he was—and there was a dragging sound followed by a strange hissing. “You behave yourself. You want the Secret Service to shoot you?”
Izzy didn’t think he was addressing his father, so there must have been someone or something else in the room, perhaps another dog. But what kind of a mutt hissed?
There was a knock. Mr. Hoover bade them enter, though there was no real door, just a gap in a series of partitions meant to create a space removed from the hall. Like the rest of the room there was a heavy Oriental influence to the panels, reflecting the family’s travels in China.
A man came in, tall, dark suit, with a grim and hasty manner. “Mr. President, we think there may be an intruder in the house.”
“What? Another one?” Mr. Hoover sounded more annoyed than disturbed at the prospect. Izzy held her breath.
“Yes, sir. We’re doing a room-by-room search, but for your own safety it has been suggested that you remove to your office. We’ve checked and cleared it.”
“I was going back to work regardless,” said the president. “It never stops, unless Mrs. Hoover insists on a pause for me.”
Allan murmured agreement. “I suppose those Scouts will be gone by now. Mother will want to tell one of us about it. Shall I volunteer?”
“By all means, but she’ll have you stuffing envelopes with her secretaries if you’re not nimble enough to escape.”
“I don’t mind. This way I can keep an eye on her.”
His father said something to the effect that Mrs. Hoover was more than capable of keeping an eye on herself. Neither seemed concerned about the intruder, which Izzy took for a favorable sign. If by horrible chance she got caught they might laugh it off. Might. She didn’t think so. Not really. One of the men must have hit a signal button, for a moment later three rings sounded and
they all left.
And not a moment too soon. Izzy flopped flat on the floor, stretching her legs in agony, and unsuccessfully stifled a sneeze caused by the haze of presidential cigar smoke. It came out as a kind of truncated squeak that closed up her ears. She worked her jaw until her hearing popped back to normal, then rubbed her abused shank muscles until she felt the pins and needles of returning circulation. She was tempted to remove her painful shoes before they permanently crippled her toes, but didn’t dare as she’d never force them back on again. Since quitting her backwoods home for the city her feet had grown soft, used to the protection of shiny leather and fashionable heels. Her days of running barefoot through grass and swamp were long over.
She noticed an odd slithery sound, like something dragging roughly over the rug. Peeking above the chair she looked accusingly at the canaries. They seemed agitated yet at the same time were oddly silent. What a mess they made, feathers and seed husks everywhere. But enough of them, Izzy had to figure a way out of this place. The Secret Service itself was on to her presence, though lord knew how they found it out. Perhaps one of the people in the Blue Room mentioned seeing a straying Girl Scout wandering around. How could they deem that to be a threat to the president? No matter. She had her story; it was past time to skedaddle.
Her legs mostly functional again, she slowly rose from behind the plants, heading toward the opening to look at the rest of the hall.
Drat. Now there were servants moving around, one of them anyway. How to sneak past him? The longer she waited, the worse it would get. Maybe her Scout cover would hold. If she worked herself into some tears and pretended she’d gotten lost from her troop. . .what was the troop leader’s name? Monahan or Houlihan? Not important, the White House staff would hardly know the difference. Bluff, bluff, bluff until blue in the face, then run like crazy, that was the way to get a story.
