All the President’s Menus (10 page)

I waited to eat dinner until Gav got home that night. After years of dining alone at my kitchen table, the prospect of cooking for someone I loved seemed like a great gift. I looked forward to the time we spent together, no matter what was on the menu and no matter what we had planned.

Tonight was one of our leftover nights. He showered when he first came in and returned to the kitchen just as I was setting out our plates. It wasn’t all that late, but the shower had given him the opportunity to switch clothes; he’d opted for his striped pajama pants and gray T-shirt. His hair was wet and his eyes tired, but his smile was warm.

“Hey,” he said, placing an arm around me. “What can I do?”

My kitchen was small and everything was almost done. “Sit,” I said with a smile. “Relax for a few minutes. Talk to me.”

“Everything smells wonderful.”

“Good. After today’s craziness at work, I didn’t have it in me to concoct anything new. Hope you don’t mind.”

He sat at the kitchen table, one corner of his mouth turned upward. “Am I here with you?”

“Yes, you’re here with me.”

“Then I’m very happy.”

I brought a bowl of vegetables to the table, and as I turned back toward the stove, he put his hands around my waist and pulled me to him.

I laughed. “What are you doing?”

He sat me on one of his knees. “It was tough, being out there with Erma and Bill.”

I’d expected that we’d talk about his visit with them, and that he’d update me on Bill’s prognosis, but just as he’d hesitated when we’d talked on the phone, he hedged again now. The look in Gav’s eyes told me there was more to the story than I expected.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Not much more than what I’ve already told you.”

“Then what’s bothering you?”

He rubbed my back. “They have no one else.”

I put an arm around his neck. “I know. This has got to be tough on you.”

“Tough on them. They already feel alone.”

I tried to guess what was going on here. “Does it bother them that you and I are married?”

He looked away, but shook his head. “Not in the way you’re asking. No. They’ve come to terms with their loss, and I believe that they’re both truly happy for me. For us.”

“Then what?”

He got a sad, thoughtful look in his eyes. “I want to be able to help them.”

“Okay,” I said, still not understanding. “How?”

When Gav didn’t want to continue a conversation, his eyes became unreadable. He put up a protective wall. Sometimes, as he struggled to sort things out for himself, he would even put physical distance between us before he was comfortable enough to share. I was much the same way, and we’d learned to give one another the space we needed, whenever we needed it.

I watched the smile in his eyes dim. “We’ll have to talk about that.”

Even though he continued to rub my back, the moment was over. I could tell that he had something big on his mind, but apparently this was not the time.

“Okay.” I stood back up, kissed him on the forehead, and returned to the stove to finish pulling dinner together.

“Tell me about Marcel,” he said. “What’s going on with him?”

Over dinner, I told Gav all I knew: Marcel was conscious, lucid, and angry to be hospitalized once again.

“Did you talk to him?”

I nodded as I forked a mouthful of green beans.

Gav pressed on. “And he hasn’t told you that he’s suffering from any ailment?”

I swallowed. “He swears he didn’t take the wrong dosage this time and I believe him. He has no reason to lie about that. You know, of course, that the White House isn’t taking any chances. They’ve ordered a bunch of tests.”

“And the doctors don’t believe this could be related to the first incident?”

“Doubtful. He’s had days to allow that medicine to get through his system, and they even cut back on his dosage temporarily, just in case. They’re monitoring him closely,” I said, “but he was being monitored just as closely before he was released the first time. Nobody has answers.”

“He has to be so frustrated.”

“Tell me about it. It looks like he may have suffered a concussion when he hit his head. He’s out of commission at the White House until he’s fully recovered.”

I asked Gav about his day at work, and his training. I knew how much he wanted to get back into the field and into the action, but they didn’t want him to take on more than he could handle and so were taking it slow until they knew he was back up to full speed. His superiors had suggested extra training, and he’d been at that for a couple of weeks now.

“You’ve heard of muscle memory,” he said with a humorous expression. “Seems as though my muscles have forgotten everything they’d ever learned. I’m more out of shape than I’ve ever been.”

“I beg to differ. You’re in great shape.”

“Thanks,” he said, “but not compared to where I was. I don’t remember being this sore in my life, ever. Even during basic training.”

“But you can feel things getting better, can’t you?”

He smiled across the table. “Days like this make me wonder if I’m getting too old for field work.”

“Old?” I nearly choked on my food. “You’re in your early forties.”

“Secret Service agents need to be nimble, agile, and fast. At this point I’m none of these things.”

If only he could see himself the way I saw him. Compared to most men his age, Gav was a fine specimen. He was tall, slim but not emaciated, and when he took his shirt off my breath caught at the sight of muscles the rest of the world didn’t get to see. The man was beautiful. In every sense of the word.

“But you’re working to get back to where you were,” I said.

“I hope I get there.”

There was something in his eyes that made me believe he wasn’t really hearing me. That there was more on his mind. More doubts about himself, perhaps?

“You will,” I said.

I was about to say more when my cell phone rang. I reached for it, making a face of surprise when I read the display. “It’s Lyman Hall Hospital,” I said, then answered, “Hello?”

Marcel’s booming, French accent greeted me. “Ah! Olivia!”

I held the phone away from my ear.

“How are you?” I asked, but he was still talking and didn’t hear the question.

“I am calling from the phone in my room,” he said. “My cell phone will not work here.” He made a
tsk
ing sound and continued without pausing for breath. “Olivia, you must help me. I need your assistance.”

With the phone a good six inches from my head, and Marcel speaking so loudly, Gav could hear every word. He and I exchanged a look of confusion.

“Absolutely, Marcel. What do you need? You sound very good, by the way. Are you feeling better?”

Again, he ignored my question. “Olivia, this is very important and I do not like speaking on the telephone about this.”

“Okay,” I said, this time with hesitation. “What’s on your mind?”

“Are you in a place where it is safe to talk? You are not at the White House, correct?”

“I’m home,” I answered, wondering what was going on. “Gav is with me.”

“Good. He is safe,” he said. “I cannot leave this room because the phone is attached to the wall.” He made another noise, this one of disgust. “Why is it that they diminish power for cell phones in hospitals? Is this not where most people will need to make important calls?”

I didn’t have an answer for that. “What’s going on?”

“One moment,” he said.

What I heard next sounded like wind, or perhaps fabric movement. A couple of seconds later, Marcel was back. “Are you able to hear me?” His voice was lower, muffled.

I pulled the phone closer to my ear. “What are you doing?”

“I have covered myself with the sheets and my pillow,” he said. “I want no one other than you and your agent to hear what I have to say.”

“Marcel, I don’t understand.”

“Olivia.” He took a deep breath, the sound of which was magnified from being under wraps. “I was drugged.”

“What?” The useless question escaped my lips instinctively. “Are you telling me that’s why you collapsed?”

“It is. There is no doubt.”

My mind reeled. “How did your doctors discover this? What were you drugged with?”

“No, no, you misunderstand,” Marcel said quickly. “My doctors claim to have no idea why I lost consciousness. They have ordered toxicology tests but the results of those are not in yet.”

“Then how do you know you were drugged?”

“My friend Franco brought me my laptop and I have been doing some investigating. You would be proud of me, no?”

I could tell from the look on Gav’s face that he was following the conversation. He looked as confused as I was.

“Tell me everything,” I said into the phone. “What are you talking about?”

Marcel adopted a patient tone, which, for him, was an enormous exercise in restraint. “I do not faint,” he began. “Except for that single incident with a mistake in my dosage, I am not a person who loses consciousness, nor do I have any illnesses that might cause me to suffer such indignity.” He gave a vexed huff.

“I understand,” I said. “And so you want answers.”

“Which these doctors do not seem willing to provide.” He made another
tsk
ing noise. “It isn’t that they are hiding information from me. It is that they don’t know. So I took it upon myself to find out. I put my symptoms into that Google box and voilà!”

I bit my lower lip. “What did you find?”

“It is classic,” he said. “Smooth and silky, like a dark ganache, there is a drug that works to render individuals unconscious. It works very quickly and is virtually undetectable.”

“What is it?”

“GHB,” he said, enunciating the letters carefully.

Gav mouthed the words as Marcel spoke them aloud. “Gamma-hydroxybutyrate.”

I knew a little about the drug. Enough to know how unusual it was to screen for. “They tested you for GHB?” I asked.

“They did not.”

“Then how do you know that’s what happened?”

Marcel let loose a sigh that conveyed exasperation. “I have every symptom. I am, what you call, a textbook case. There is no doubt in my mind that one of the Saardiscan men put this into my drink.”

“I don’t understand,” I said again.

“Have any of them experienced these symptoms? Have any of them needed to be taken to the hospital?”

“No.”

“You see,” he said. “I was targeted. They did this to me.”

“To what end?” I asked. Not because I wanted to argue the point with Marcel. Our pastry chef was clearly troubled by this theory. “What would they stand to gain with you in the hospital? GHB knocks people out temporarily. What would that do for them?”

“How should I know?” Marcel asked, his voice so shrill at that point that I’m sure everyone on the hospital floor heard it, pillow over his head or not. “That is why I need your help. You must find out why they would do this.”

Words failed me.

“He wouldn’t have been tested for GHB as a matter of course,” Gav whispered, close to my ear so that Marcel wouldn’t be able to hear. “Chances are his body has already metabolized it. That is, if there were any there to begin with.”

“How’s your head?” I asked Marcel. “Did you need any stitches?”

“Fourteen,” he said. “It is very hot under here.” I could tell, from the noises in the background, when he pulled the sheets and pillow away. “Ah. There. Better.”

“Any updates about the concussion?”

“Our chief usher believes that my impairment renders me unable to work in the kitchen. He has prohibited me from returning until I complete certain examinations.”

“I’m sorry, Marcel,” I said. “But I understand Peter Sargeant’s directive. Concussions are serious. We don’t want you to rush your recovery and possibly make things worse.”

“Do not think that my head injury is affecting my judgment, Olivia,” he said. “I know you would suspect that I am feeble-brained right now.”

“Not at all,” I said, though the idea had crossed my mind. “But I am worried for you.”

“If you want to help, then you must investigate this. I know that my chocolate had a more salty taste than it should have. I was disappointed even though I knew I had not erred while assembling the ingredients. GHB has a salty taste. You see?”

“Have you brought this to the attention of the Secret Service?”

“Your handsome new husband is now aware, yes?”

“Yes,” I agreed, though I wished I didn’t have to. Rather than look distraught by my admission, Gav looked thoughtful. He continued to pay close attention as Marcel went on.

“I will, of course, tell Agent MacKenzie, but you must promise me,” he said. “Of everyone at the White House, you are the person who is best at uncovering the truth.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would,” he said with more than a touch of enthusiasm. “You have unmasked killers and have put yourself at great personal risk for many people you do not even know. Will you not help a friend?”

At that I had no choice. Marcel was right. He was my friend and I owed it to him. What might be even more to the point was that if the Saardiscans
had
sabotaged his chocolate, then everyone in the White House was at risk. The chances of that were slim, of course. I hoped all of tonight’s drama had more to do with our pastry chef’s concussion than any real threat.