Foreign Éclairs Page 4

  Dismissing my apology, she scooped up the pictures and began laying out another row. “Oh,” I said, “I thought we were done. Hey—” I pointed to the third photo. “Him. I can’t swear to it like I did with the other guy, but he feels familiar.”

  The two detectives exchanged yet another one of their confounding looks. Beem stood. Kager gathered up the pictures then stood, too. “As soon as we arrange for the lineup, we will be in touch,” she said.

  “Hold on a minute.” Neville didn’t get up. “Chef Paras and I were under the impression that the lineup would take place today. Has something changed?” He held a hand out toward the folder Kager had tucked under her arm. “Are the individuals Ms. Paras identified the same ones you originally suspected and intended to bring in?”

  Kager shook her head. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Then”—Neville folded his hands again as precisely as before—“tell me this much: Are you here today because you’ve been unsuccessful in picking up these persons of interest?”

  Kager scratched at one eyebrow with the tip of a fingernail. “We will be in touch once we’ve assembled a suitable lineup,” she said.

  “That didn’t answer my question.”

  “The less I share about our investigation, the less we color Ms. Paras’s recollections. I’m sure you understand.”

  Neville stared. “As long as you understand how important it is to the White House to have these two criminals apprehended and charged as soon as possible.”

  Beem tilted his head toward the door. Kager turned to me. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon.”

  When they left, I stood up. “I don’t like it,” Neville said before I could turn for the door. He fingered an ear lobe and stared at the wall. “They know these guys, they know where they live. There’s no reason why they couldn’t have rousted them and hauled them in today.”

  “What’s the holdup then?” I asked. “Excuse the pun.”

  Neville glared, but allowed a quick grin. “That’s what I want to know. Even if these two detectives don’t deal directly with this gang, they have the resources to find them. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”

  “Unless the criminals left town?” I asked. “Or someone is hiding them?”

  “Possible, but unlikely.” He continued to tug at his ear lobe. “I don’t like it,” he said again. “When is Agent Gavin expected to return?”

  I didn’t know, and said so.

  “Has he been apprised of the situation?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to talk with him,” I said. “He’s completely out of touch.”

  Neville offered a wry smile. “Part of the job,” he said. “Tough to have a family when the country always has to come first.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I didn’t.

  * * *

  A half hour before I needed to be upstairs with Sargeant, Bucky returned to the kitchen empty-handed. “Browsing the stores didn’t do me any good,” he said. “I have less than a week to figure out what to get Brandy.”

  “I’ll bet you come up with the perfect idea,” I said. “Think about what she always talks about. What’s important to her?”

  “Hmm,” he said. “Easier said than done.”

  I turned at a brisk knock at our doorway. “Chef Paras?”

  Elaine stood there. One of our administrative assistants, she’d worked in the White House longer than I’d been alive. Taller and heavier than me, with silvery hair pulled back in a low pony, she wore rhinestone-studded cat’s-eye glasses and an apologetic air.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said with a smile and a swift glance at her watch, “but the candidate for the assistant chef position is here. Mr. Sargeant would like to know if you’re free to start the interview early.”

  “That’s fine.” I stripped off my apron and conferred with Bucky before heading upstairs with Elaine.

  “Mr. Sargeant will be very pleased,” she said as we made our way up the quiet stairway. “He has a particularly busy schedule this afternoon.”

  “I take it Margaret isn’t back yet?”

  She shook her head. “Mr. Sargeant has been trying to reach her to find out when she expects to return.”

  “Margaret is always so on top of things,” I said. “I’m surprised she hasn’t kept him better informed.”

  Elaine pursed her lips and gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Family emergencies turn a person’s life upside down. It’s hard to predict how people will react in a crisis.”

  “I’m sorry for whatever she’s going through.”

  “You may go right in,” Elaine said when we reached the chief usher’s office. “They’re waiting for you.”

  * * *

  After welcoming candidates and making appropriate introductions, Sargeant liked to open interviews by summarizing general expectations of all White House employees. It was a good icebreaker and usually served as an effective segue for questions.

  When Sargeant finished his intro, he turned the meeting over to me.

  If old-school pizza ads could come alive, then one of them sat before us now. Nicholas Dulkin looked like a blend of every smiling, chubby, mustachioed chef caricature out there. Most candidates sat up straight and a little bit forward during the interview process, conveying eagerness or perhaps their discomfort. Dulkin sat back, hands folded across his prodigious middle, twiddling his thumbs.

  Maybe it was a nervous habit, maybe he wasn’t attempting to personify boredom. I reminded myself to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Dulkin answered my questions well enough; there was no doubt that this chef had the chops. I couldn’t help wondering, however, why a professional of his caliber would seek a junior position. So I asked.

  He shifted his weight. “The White House kitchen is, of course, the most prestigious in the nation, possibly the world.”

  Sargeant and I waited for him to continue.

  He smoothed his mustache with the back of his thumb, one side at a time. “The chance to prepare meals for our president is every chef’s dream, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t sense outright prevarication from him, but I couldn’t allow that sort of non-answer to slide. “Are you telling us that working here has always been your dream?”

  “If that’s the case, please clarify.” Sargeant donned his reading glasses to sift through the Secret Service’s reports on the man. “You don’t seem to have ever sought a position at the White House before this.”

  Dulkin smoothed his mustache again, darting a glance at Sargeant, who watched with his characteristic squirrel-like alertness. “I have spent all of my adult life in kitchens and I have—with utter modesty—created spectacular meals for hundreds of important guests. I could easily continue to do so and retire comfortably whenever I wanted.”

  We waited for the “but.”

  Instead, he rolled his shoulders. “I’m not married and have few family ties. There is nothing for me at home. Each day I travel to my workplace and if I’m successful—which I usually am—I enhance our guests’ lives a little bit. The time has come for me to take stock and to ask myself how to enhance my own life.”

  “How do you expect working at the White House to do that for you?” I asked.

  “It’s not just the White House.” He met my gaze. “It’s also working with you.”

  “Oh?” Sargeant’s chin tilted up. “Do you care to expand on that?”

  “I hesitate to admit this . . .”

  “Please,” Sargeant said, with feigned solicitude, “we’re eager to know what makes you tick.”

  A flush crawled into Dulkin’s high cheeks, even as he maintained eye contact. “I have had a good life. A successful life. But most kitchens do not afford the opportunity for intrigue and excitement that your kitchen does.” He pointed inward, with both hands. “I’m middle-aged and out of shape. Your Secret Service would never hire me. And yet . . . you.” Unfolding his hands, he stretched them toward me. “Like me, you are a chef and
yet unlike me, you’ve been involved in world events. Your legacy will live on. I am forgotten by the time a diner sits down to his next meal.”

  Taken aback, it took me a moment to find my voice. “Am I to understand that you see this White House position as some sort of gateway to intrigue?”

  “It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.” His face, glowing with perspiration now, continued to redden. “But, in a way, yes. I want a legacy. I want to have done something important and big. I want to be known for more than I am now. You have accomplished so much for someone so young. I can learn from you.”

  To my great surprise, Sargeant appeared amused rather than perturbed by Dulkin’s impassioned speech. His brows came together briefly, and he jotted a note on the papers before him. “I see. Thank you for your candor, Mr. Dulkin.”

  “I’m probably the top candidate you’ll interview.” He talked faster now. Using the back of his hand to wipe at his glistening hairline, Dulkin’s gaze jumped back and forth between us. “I wouldn’t go looking for trouble. I hope you understand that. Have I ruined my chances by admitting that I long for a more meaningful life?”

  Before Sargeant or I could respond, Elaine stepped into the office. “Excuse me, sir. You have a phone call.”

  Sargeant’s head snapped up. “I told you we were not to be disturbed.”

  The assistant didn’t cower or apologize. She held a pen tightly clasped in one fist and gripped the doorknob with her other hand. The look in the woman’s eyes underscored her point even before she spoke again. She widened the door, this time addressing me and Dulkin. “Would you both please join me out here to allow Mr. Sargeant privacy for his phone call?”

  CHAPTER 6

  When Sargeant opened his office door a few minutes later, Dulkin jumped to his feet, displaying undisguised impatience to resume the interview. I remained rooted in my chair, rattled by the expression on our chief usher’s face. I’d witnessed Sargeant suffer devastating news in the past, and I recognized that look on him now. Something terrible had happened.

  Dulkin barely had time to open his mouth before Sargeant held his hand up, palm out. “Elaine will escort you out,” he said to the man. “We will be in touch.”

  Dulkin glanced to me. “That’s it then?”

  If this man harbored any delusions of becoming the next James Bond, he needed to work on his observational skills. “Yes.” I touched his arm. “Let’s go.” To Elaine, I said, “I’ll be happy to see Mr. Dulkin out.”

  “No, Ollie.” Sargeant’s snappish tone and uncharacteristic use of my nickname stopped me cold. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he turned away. “In my office, please.”

  He shut the door behind us. “Please sit,” he said as he lowered himself into his chair. “I know I need to.”

  I reclaimed my spot across from him, feeling my heart rate accelerate in fear of the unknown. He peeled his reading glasses off and threw them to the desk, never making eye contact with me. Using both hands he rubbed his face slowly. Very slowly.

  I remained silent as long as I could. “What happened, Peter?”

  “A moment, please.” Through the space between his wrists, I watched his Adam’s apple bob. He kept his face down, shifting his fingers to massage his eye sockets before moving them to his temples. His ministrations went on for an unbearably long time before he finally raised his gaze to meet mine.

  He struggled to speak. “I have just been notified that Margaret is dead.”

  My hand flew to my mouth.

  Times like these, my gut processes information faster than my mind can form words. How could her family emergency have produced such a result? Had she actually been ill herself and reluctant to admit it? How could a person who seemed perfectly healthy have succumbed so quickly?

  As though he’d heard the cyclone of questions roaring through my brain, Sargeant waved the air between us with one hand while covering his eyes with the other. “No,” he said. “It’s not like that.” He drew in a deep breath and looked up at me again. “Margaret was murdered.”

  “What?” The worthless exclamation plopped out, helping no one and serving no purpose whatsoever. Condemning my instinctive response, I struggled for control of my wits and emotions as I searched for better words. “Tell me what you know.”

  “Very little.” The downturned edges of his mouth quivered as he fought to maintain control. “Neville Walker made the notification after the Metro Police contacted him. We have few details at this point, but the police seem to believe that she was killed over the weekend.” He pulled in a deep breath through his nose and blinked several times. “That would certainly explain why she hadn’t been in contact.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear this,” I said when I found my voice again. “Where did it happen? That is, did her death have something to do with the emergency that called her away?”

  He shook his head. “There was no family emergency. When the police contacted Margaret’s next of kin, they said that they hadn’t heard from her in more than a week.”

  “Then why . . .”

  Before I could ask the question, Sargeant answered it. “We don’t know. Because Margaret was employed here, the Secret Service will be working with Metro Police on this matter. There are any number of possible scenarios to explain her fabrication. None of them good.”

  * * *

  When I returned to the kitchen, Bucky grinned. “Hey, I’ve got good news for you.” One second later, his cheery expression faded. Immediately solicitous, he pulled out the chair we kept near the computer and encouraged me to sit. “What happened?”

  When I told him, he gripped the nearby counter for support. “Murdered? Are they sure?”

  I didn’t know anything beyond what Sargeant had told me. “I doubt they’d make such a grave statement without cause.”

  The two of us sat silently for a long moment.

  “She and I didn’t really get along, you know,” I said quietly. “I mean, she was dependable and good at her job, but as a person . . . I didn’t particularly care for her.”

  “She irked a lot of people. That’s not to say that anyone here would have wished her ill. Never that.”

  “I know. But now I wish I would have tried harder to break through to her. People like Margaret who go out of their way to put other people down, usually do so because they’re unhappy with themselves, or their lives.”

  “What happened to her isn’t your fault, Ollie.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then don’t blame yourself.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “I should have tried harder.”

  “I know it isn’t right to speak ill of the dead, but I’m not one to confer sainthood on a person just because they’re no longer around,” he said. “You were kinder to her than she deserved.”

  “I thought I’d lead by example,” I said with a rueful chuckle. “Does that sound conceited or what? I truly believed that over time she would come to understand that there was no need to . . .”

  “Not everyone can be turned around, Chief, no matter how much you want to believe otherwise.”

  I shook myself. We still had dinner to prepare. I would mourn Margaret in my own way, but later. “You said something about good news?” I asked.

  “It was,” Bucky said. “Not sure how you’ll feel about it now. Secret Service came down to let you know that Josh offered to bring a treat to school tomorrow and wants to make it himself. He asked if you might have time for him today. I knew how much you missed working with him, so I said that would be fine. If, in light of what’s happened, you’d rather not, I’m sure he would understand.”

  I ran a hand up and through my hair. Of all days for Josh to come work in the kitchen. “No, it’s good.” I straightened. “Working with him will help me focus on the positive.”

  * * *

  Josh showed up a couple of hours later. He hadn’t grown much taller in the nearly three years we’d known him, but though the dark hair and eyes stayed the same, the gangly littl
e boy was gone. Over the past year, he’d picked up weight and a habit of shrugging when he answered a question. Although I wouldn’t call him chubby, he could no longer be characterized as lean.

  Whenever the president’s son joined us, his Secret Service detachment escorted him to the kitchen. Once there, however, they usually stepped outside of the working area in order to allow Josh privacy and all of us room to move. Two agents accompanied him today. I’d never met either of the men, but they had evidently been instructed on the how-to of the situation. They quickly withdrew from the room.

  After greeting me and Bucky, Josh asked, “You got my message, right?”

  “I did,” I said. “Good to see you. How’s school going?”

  With his back to me as he pulled an apron from our stash, he lifted one shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  “What would you like to make today?” I asked. “This is for the kids at school, right?”

  Bucky and I had come up with a few options for today’s project—new recipes we were convinced Josh would enjoy preparing—but before I could suggest any, Josh finished tying the apron and said, “I was thinking we’d do a quick batch of those brownie bites—you know which ones I mean?”

  “The ones we usually garnish with pecans?” I asked.

  “That’s it. Those are pretty easy.”

  I could make brownie bites in my sleep. Josh could, too. In terms of adventure, this project rated a big fat zero. “Does anyone in your classroom have a nut allergy?” I asked. “If you want, we could come up with a new treat. Chocolate but without the added nuts. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “Can’t we just keep the nuts off?” he asked, with the ever-present shrug. “I don’t need anything weird or fancy. Just normal brownies.”

  “No problem,” I said, fighting disappointment. Behind Josh, Bucky raised his eyebrows; I knew he read my mind. “How many do you need?”

  “We could double the recipe and leave some home, I guess. That would work.”

  “What sort of garnish would you like?” I asked. “You remember those mini-leaves Marcel used to decorate your grandmother’s birthday cake last week? They look really cool, and are perfect for fall. We may have enough left over.”