Eggsecutive Orders Read online

  “Of course,” I said, bristling. “But I can guarantee that Mr. Minkus did not die as a result of anything that came out of my kitchen.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Brewster asked me a few questions about my employment at the White House-information he could have easily gleaned from my personnel file. Then he asked me about the meal we had prepared for Agent Minkus at last night’s dinner. Whenever I tried to add commentary, he held up a hand and reminded me to “just answer the question.”

  When he finally finished, I wiped fingers along my hairline, and grimaced at the perspiration there. Brewster had that effect on me-he probably had that effect on everyone he met.

  As though silently summoned, one of the matching-bookend agents came in.

  “Agent Guzy,” Brewster said. “Ms. Paras is ready for her interrogation with the Metropolitan Police. Take her downstairs.”

  My interrogation? What had this been?

  I had turned when Agent Guzy arrived. Now I twisted back to face Brewster. “I don’t have time to be questioned right now,” I said, pointing to my watch. “I have to get breakfast ready for the president and the First Lady.”

  Brewster blinked. Like a bored cow.

  “And my staff,” I continued. “They won’t realize why I’m not there. I need to talk with them.” I was perched at the edge of my chair, leaning in toward the desk, as though the proximity of my speech would make my words more meaningful to Brewster. “You don’t understand-”

  “No, Ms. Paras,” Brewster said slowly. “It is you who does not understand. Until we know what caused Agent Minkus’s unexpected death, there will be no food coming out of the White House kitchen. Especially not to be served to the president or his family.”

  I sat back. “You can’t actually believe that-”

  Still speaking slowly, he licked fat lips. “You will cooperate fully with the team assigned to you.”

  I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t decide what to say.

  Brewster fixed me with an impatient glare. “Now, I will ask you again. Do you understand?”

  I rubbed my forehead. “I’m beginning to.”

  Brewster turned to Guzy. “Have your brother bring in Buckminster Reed from the other room.”

  Bucky. My second-in-command. One by one, they would bring in everyone from the kitchen. Probably the sommelier and the butlers, too.

  Suddenly I felt the weight of it all. Someone had died on our watch. This had never happened before. Although I understood the need to find out why-and how-I knew no one on my staff would have made such a tragic mistake with food. Minkus could not have died as a result of our preparations. He must have died naturally, or in some non-food-related way.

  Brewster brought his face close to mine, interrupting my chain of reasoning. “You’re dismissed.”

  As Guzy and I headed out the door, I remembered something.

  I rushed back to Brewster’s desk. “We had guests yesterday.”

  The way Brewster raised his eyes made it seem as though his lids weighed a thousand pounds. Each. “Yes,” he said. “And one of them died. We have established that.”

  “No, I mean in the kitchen.” The man’s bored expression urged me to talk faster. “I can prove that no one in the kitchen did anything wrong. We had cameras rolling yesterday. All day. We had guest chefs in the-”

  He held up his hand. “Guest chefs?”

  “A TV special,” I said. “Suzie and Steve.” I wanted to make the point that I could prove that nothing had been handled improperly. We could get this whole thing cleared up if only someone would take the time to review yesterday’s recordings.

  “Suzie,” he repeated without interest. “And Steve.”

  “You know, the SizzleMasters.”

  He rubbed his nose, then scribbled a few notes on the pages before him. With another impatient look at me, he turned to Guzy. “Get me everything you can on this Suzie and Steve. And round them up, too.”

  “Round them up?” I asked in horror.

  Guzy tugged my elbow.

  “You misunderstand,” I said. “I’m not saying they did anything wrong. I’m saying I have proof that-”

  “Lot of that misunderstanding going around here today, wouldn’t you say, Ms. Paras?” Brewster pointed to the door. “Thanks for the tip. You think of anyone else who might be suspicious, you let us know.”

  CHAPTER 4

  LOOKING SMALL AND SCARED, CYAN WAS SEATED on a white plastic folding chair when Agent Guzy brought me into the next room. “Cyan!” I said, rushing toward her.

  She jumped to her feet. “Ollie.”

  “No talking.”

  We stopped, startled-feeling like criminals. Did they really believe we killed Minkus?

  Taking a seat next to Cyan, I realized, belatedly, that that’s exactly what we were up against.

  Agent Guzy walked to the far end where his twin stood, staring straight ahead. Brewster had mentioned they were brothers, so I hadn’t been too far off when I assigned them the monikers of Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Guzy One spoke in low tones to Guzy Two, and the second man left the room.

  My chair wobbled. I tried to sit very still to prevent it from making noise in the silence. Hard to do in such a chilly place, I thought, suppressing a shiver. White unadorned walls prevented me from finding anything of interest to focus on. The only thing in the room I could watch was the agent, who stood unmoving, except for the occasional blink.

  Cyan and I shared a look. She shrugged. Since we were forbidden to speak, there wasn’t much else to do except try to put together what I knew. Carl Minkus’s death was unfortunate, and I felt bad-the way you feel bad whenever you hear that anyone has died-but I didn’t have any particular affection for the man. In fact, I don’t think I’d actually ever met him. The closest I’d gotten was when he’d been a guest at the White House. And that had only been maybe twice before.

  Third time’s the charm.

  Ooh. Bad thought.

  “How long are we going to be here?” I asked.

  Guzy One directed his gaze to me, but didn’t speak.

  Cyan whispered, “Isn’t your mom arriving today? And your grandmother?”

  I nodded. “I sure hope we’re out of here by-”

  “No talking.”

  Just as Guzy One said that, the door opened again and Bucky was ushered in, accompanied by Guzy Two. Brewster must not have had very many questions for my assistant chef. “That was quick,” I said to Bucky.

  He yanked himself out of the agent’s grasp. “What the hell is going on here?” Bucky asked.

  Guzy Two pointed. “No talking.”

  Bucky, Cyan, and I shared a look that spoke of our disbelief at the way we were being treated. I’d never met either of these Guzy brothers. They clearly hadn’t been on the Presidential Protective Detail for very long. Then again, they might have just been brought in for the day. After all, it wasn’t every day that a White House soiree ended with a dead guest.

  The third agent from this morning’s car ride came in. The weak link. I fixed him with a smile before he had a chance to join his comrades. “Hi,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  He looked perplexed by the question, but answered. “Snyabar.”

  The Guzy brothers exchanged a look as I stood up. “Agent Snyabar,” I began, “I think we’ve gotten off to a bad start here.”

  Snyabar moved closer to the Guzy brothers, who stepped apart to allow him into their midst. I advanced, noting that the little chef was causing the big Secret Service agents to circle their wagons.

  “Please return to your seat, Ms. Paras,” the first Guzy said. “You will be summoned by the investigators soon.”

  “Really, is all this necessary?” I asked.

  The way the three men stared straight ahead, without even acknowledging that I’d spoken, scared me most of all. We were trusted White House staff members. At least, we had been yesterday. Right now I felt vulnerable-and guilty. I even started to doubt myself.
Could there have been some combination of spices, foods, or beverages that was toxic to Carl Minkus? Was there some way I could have known this?

  I was about to try breaking the Secret Service barrier again, when the door opened, and Peter Everett Sargeant III strode in. “Ah,” he said. “Here you are.”

  I found it unlikely that he’d been looking for me for any valid reason. Peter Everett Sargeant and I had never gotten along. I’d say that we didn’t see eye to eye, but I believed the fact that we were almost the same height was exactly the problem. Peter was an incredibly short fellow, obsequious and ingratiating to everyone in power, but condescending and obnoxious to those below him, and especially staffers who were shorter than he was. Which was… me.

  “Is there something you need, Peter?”

  Our Secret Service guards, surprisingly, didn’t scold me. Apparently talking among ourselves was verboten, but conversing with the angry chief of cultural and faith-based etiquette affairs was not.

  Sargeant paced in front of Cyan and Bucky, his hands clasped in front of him. “Well, well, well,” he said. “How the mighty have fallen.”

  I folded my arms. “Care to explain?”

  The agents shifted their weight, in sequence. Guzy One stretched his neck, then glanced at the door.

  Sargeant’s little eyes narrowed as he came close. “Do you have any idea the trouble we’re dealing with out there?” He gestured vaguely toward the residence. “The trouble you’ve caused?”

  That got my back up. “I don’t believe it’s been proven that the kitchen had anything to do with Carl Minkus’s death. And until that time, I’ll thank you to stop pointing fingers.”

  One corner of his mouth curled up. “Just wait, Ms. Paras. I’ve heard things.”

  I must have reacted, because Sargeant’s smile got a little bigger. “Yes, it seems Agent Minkus commented about his meal, right before he collapsed.”

  We were talking about a person’s death here, and yet Sargeant seemed almost gleeful in his explanation as he continued. “Something was most definitely wrong with the meal and it won’t be long before every finger points at you.” He sniffed, glancing as he did at Cyan and Bucky. “At all of you.”

  I couldn’t stop myself. “What did Minkus say?”

  At the far end of the room, the door opened and someone called for me.

  Sargeant didn’t reply, but before I could ask him again, Guzy One stepped between us. “Ms. Paras, you’ve been summoned.”

  “But…” I sputtered.

  “Now,” Guzy said. He nipped my elbow between his thumb and forefinger and guided me toward the door.

  I wasn’t done with Sargeant. Even though I was sure he was baiting me, I couldn’t stop myself from asking again. “Minkus said something about the food?”

  “He most certainly did.” Sargeant’s eyes glittered.

  What kind of person found enjoyment only when someone else was suffering?

  He raised a hand and gave me a little finger wave. “I’ll fill you in later. I’ll be here,” he said. “And with any luck, you won’t.”

  CHAPTER 5

  GUZY ONE SHUTTLED ME OUT OF THE EAST Wing into the main residence and up to the first floor. The walk through the majestic entrance and cross hall-which I’d done hundreds of times-should have felt comforting and familiar. But all I could concentrate on were the echoing squishes of my shoes against the marble floor and Agent Guzy’s brisk clip-clip-clip beside me.

  I’d assumed we were headed to Paul Vasquez’s office, but instead wound up in the State Dining Room, where it appeared the authorities had set up a command post. The prior evening’s dinner had been served in the adjacent Family Dining Room. That, to me, was a misnomer because when the First Family dined together, they tended to congregate upstairs in the private quarters. This Family Dining Room was on the main floor and the Campbells often used it for intimate business dinners, like last night’s had been.

  There were dozens of Secret Service agents in the State Dining Room. Several folding tables had been brought in and computers set up. There were uniformed agents as well as PPD agents, and I quickly scanned the room, looking for Tom.

  Being short is a major disadvantage because I was lost in a sea of broad shoulders and hurrying clerks. Tom is tall, and I aimed my gaze upward, but Guzy tugged me toward the northwest corner of the room, near the pantry.

  “Paul!” I said when I saw our chief usher.

  Urgency must have been apparent in my voice because he left a group of agents, and hurried over to me. “Ollie, how are you holding up?”

  I managed to squirm out of Guzy’s grip. “I don’t know.”

  Paul winced. “This is a bad one.” He turned to Guzy and nodded. “Thank you.”

  Guzy seemed perplexed by the dismissal, as though not quite sure how to take the directive from Paul. As chief usher, Paul didn’t control the PPD, but there was an understanding between him and veteran agents. Paul controlled the residence, and if he was taking responsibility for the executive chef, then Agent Guzy needed to find something else to do.

  “Sir, I-”

  “You’re free to go.”

  Raising his voice to be heard above the din, Guzy tried harder. “But, sir-” He reached out a hand, as though to ensnare my elbow again. I sidestepped him.

  From behind us, a familiar voice. “It’s okay. I got it.”

  We both turned.

  “Tom!” I said. Paul Vasquez rolled his eyes. Although Tom and I had tried to keep our relationship quiet amongst the White House staff, it was getting to be a joke that the only people truly unaware of the situation were the president and the First Lady themselves. And apparently Agent Guzy, too.

  He looked dumbfounded. Which was quite a sight from this expressionless behemoth. “Agent MacKenzie,” he said, his tone deferential.

  Tom stepped between us. “I’ll take it from here.”

  I leaned up to whisper: “Bucky and Cyan.”

  Tom smiled down at me, then addressed Guzy again. “Would you please see that Ms. Paras’s assistants are escorted to the Library?”

  Guzy nodded. “Right away.”

  When he left, Tom turned to me, asking the same thing Paul had. “How are you holding up?”

  I started with my topmost concern. “My mom,” I said. “I forgot my cell phone at home. In all the excitement-”

  Paul looked confused.

  Tom ran a hand through his hair. “They’re arriving today?”

  “They’re supposed to touch down at eight fifty this morning.”

  He looked at his watch. It was just after five our time, which made it four in Chicago. “Early. Are they at the airport now?”

  “They should be.” I shrugged. “But I have no idea.”

  Paul cleared his throat. “The investigators need to talk with Ollie.”

  Tom shepherded us toward the pantry, where I’d expected it to be quiet. Instead, there were paper-booted, latex-gloved technicians taking apart every inch of my workspace. They were covered, head to toe, in Tyvek jumpsuits and wore masks over their faces and shower caps over their heads. I could only imagine that the scene downstairs in my kitchen was worse. I groaned.

  “It’s standard operating procedure, Ollie,” Tom said. “They have to examine everything.”

  We both knew that before this episode was over, my kitchens would be turned inside out and upside down. Which was exactly the state of my stomach at the moment.

  The door between the pantry and the Family Dining Room had been propped open and I could see more technicians in full protective gear. President Campbell stood at the doorway leading to the stairway and Usher’s Room. He was having an intense conversation with Agent Craig Sanderson.

  At that moment, the president looked up and made eye contact with me. His mouth was set in a grim line and I thought I could detect disappointment, even across the crowded room. I was sorry to see it there, even if I had done nothing to cause it. He nodded in acknowledgment, then turned slightly away from
me, to continue his conversation.

  “What is going on?” I asked.

  Paul urged me back into the center of the pantry, then called for quiet. The busy technicians stopped what they were doing and turned to face us. I was glad to have Tom behind me.

  “This is Executive Chef Olivia Paras,” Paul said in a clear voice. “If you have any questions, she will be available in the Library.”

  From behind their obscuring getups, I could make out that three of the technicians were male, two female. One of the men wore glasses behind his safety goggles. Why were they dressed so protectively? Did they think Minkus died as a result of an airborne contaminant? If so, then wouldn’t the other guests have been affected? Wouldn’t we all be at risk? I wanted to get out of this room with its suddenly close quarters and heavy, stale air.

  “You’ll be happy to cooperate, right, Ollie?” Paul said, nudging me forward.

  “Yes,” I said. I caught his hint and spoke assertively to the group. “I know you have a job to do and I’m here to help in any way I can. My staff and I are at your service.”

  Paul nodded, then moved us back out the door, through the State Dining Room, where activity had grown to fever pitch. I wanted to stop, but Tom and Paul kept moving me forward.

  “We’ve got to get you out of here,” Tom said under his breath. “They’ve got Metropolitan Police here and we can’t be sure of leaks.”

  “Leaks?” I asked, as the two men escorted me to the stairs adjacent to the East Room. “But what could be leaked?”

  “That’s the thing you learn in the world of politics,” Paul said. “You never want to give out information you don’t need to share. Anything that can be misconstrued, usually is.”

  I’d expected our path to take us to the Library, where Tom had told Guzy to take Cyan and Bucky, but as we reached the bottom of the stairs we walked across the hall to the China Room.

  The door opened as we approached. The third agent from this morning, Agent Snyabar, was there, as were two Metropolitan Police detectives who proffered their badges for my inspection. A male/female team, their names were Fielding and Wallerton. Tom and Paul escorted me in and led me to one of the wing chairs. I declined, not wanting to be the only seated person.