Eggsecutive Orders (30 page)

It wasn’t just the fact that Liss had predicted this meeting that threw me off my game. And it wasn’t because of Kap’s alleged involvement in Minkus’s death—although I had to admit that was a big one for me to get my head around. I was upset, worried, and uncharacteristically frantic because we were serving a meal in the White House to Phil Cooper. Not only had he been one of the individuals present at Sunday’s disastrous dinner—according to Liss, he was one of the prime suspects. Like him or not, and I certainly didn’t, Liss had an uncanny knack for being able to find things out.

I could not let anything go wrong—not with the food—this time. But what if Cooper had bigger game in his sights? But I couldn’t go sounding the alarm to the Secret Service based on vague, unsubstantiated innuendo from a questionable journalist.

Cyan and I worked in almost total silence. In between lunch preparations, she and I also did our best to work ahead for tomorrow’s Easter dinner. But when I dropped yet another one of our tasting spoons, she gave out a strangled cry. “You’re making
me
nervous now.”

“What did Paul say about Henry?” I asked.

She stopped long enough to look at me. “That’s the fourth time you’ve asked me.” She glanced at the clock. “In the past two hours.”

I rubbed my forehead with the back of my hand. “I just can’t seem to concentrate.”

“You’re going to have to, especially if Henry can’t make it. Paul said he would call him personally. He’ll let us know when he gets an answer.”

“Of course,” I said, realizing I
had
heard this information already. “But I can’t stop thinking about how this luncheon meeting could go bad.” I swept my hand out, encompassing the room. “We have to make certain that nothing happens to the president’s food between the time we prepare it and the time it’s served.”

“How do you intend to do that?”

I shook my head. I didn’t know. “Where are they serving?”

Cyan gave me a look that made it clear I’d asked that question before, too.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, remembering. “The President’s Dining Room.” I stared down at the greens before me, looked up at the door, then studied the clock. “That will make it difficult.”

“Make what difficult?”

“What if we accompanied our creations?” I was thinking out loud here, but the more I talked, the better the idea began to sound. “We can tell the wait staff that we need to prepare this tableside—”

She looked shocked. “But we don’t.”

“Who’s going to argue with us?”

“The President’s Dining Room is in the West Wing!” she said, although she clearly knew I was aware of that fact. “Are you nuts?”

“No, listen.” I held up both hands, excited now. “The butlers will serve—just like normal. But we would be right outside the dining room, plating the courses just before they go in.”

“That’s crazy,” Cyan said. “What do you think you can possibly accomplish?”

“We’ll be able to ensure that the president’s food is safe. That’s paramount. There will be no chance for anyone else to have access to the food before it’s served.”

“You don’t trust our wait staff?”

“I do,” I said. “But call me paranoid. Something went wrong on Sunday, and we still don’t know what it was. All I know is that I’ll feel better if the chain of custody isn’t compromised. The only way I can be certain of that is to be there myself.”

“ ‘Chain of custody’? You’re starting to sound like a TV cop show.” She shook her head, but I noticed the glimmer of possibility in her eyes. “We’ll have to clear this with Jackson.”

“Not only that,” I said, my mind in hyper-drive, “we can maybe even get a sense of what’s going on in there. I mean, why are they meeting with the president anyway?”

“Ollie!” Cyan’s expression was one of utter disbelief. “You know that’s none of our business. Besides,” she added, her tone softening, “they’d never let us close enough to actually overhear anything. Not in the West Wing.”

“You’re right,” I said. “But maybe we can find out what Kap is doing here.”

She gave me a skeptical look. “Is that what this is all about? You’re playing detective because of him cozying up to your mom?”

“No,” I said. And I meant it. “I don’t know what the guy’s story is, but I can’t help feeling that we need to be there. Liss swears that Kap and Cooper were responsible for Minkus’s death. If he’s right, then our president will be dining this afternoon with two assassins.”

I didn’t understand Cyan’s sudden sympathetic expression. “Ollie,” she said. “I know you’re taking this Minkus death personally. I understand that. I feel it, too. But there’s really not a thing either of us can do. It’s completely out of our hands.”

She had a point. The heightened tension I’d felt from making elaborate plans fell suddenly away. I picked up the greens I’d been working with. “You’re right.”

“Plus we have so much work to do . . .”

“What’s this?” came a booming voice from the doorway. “Are we standing around chatting or are we working?”

“Henry!” I dropped the greens and wiped my hands on my apron to give him a big hug. “You came!”

“I left home the minute I received Paul’s call.” He reached out to hug Cyan, too. “How could I resist? He said you needed me.”

A lump lodged in my throat. It was so good to see Henry—so good to have him here. His face was ruddier and more wrinkled than I remembered, but he had slimmed down, and—did I imagine this?—had developed significant muscularity. “You look great,” I said. “What have you been doing?”

“I added a secret ingredient to my diet,” he said with a wink. “Powerful stuff.”

Cyan teased: “You should consider sharing your secret ingredient with the world. You’d make millions.”

“No sharing,” he said, wagging a finger, his smile bigger than I’d seen it in all the time we worked together. “Nope, nope, nope.”

“Secret ingredient, huh?” I put my hands on my hips. “Okay, Henry, ’fess up. What’s her name?”

“Now what makes you think that a woman is responsible for my . . . renaissance?” His eyes twinkled.

We waited.

“Her name is Mercedes. And now, you two astute detectives, tell me what needs to be done.”

We brought him up to speed on all menu decisions and discovered that Paul had already briefed him on the Bucky situation. “We are most certainly under the gun,” he said. “But this kitchen has been in dire straits before. We shall prevail, as we always have.” Finished with his proclamation, he turned to me. “Ms. Executive Chef, I am at your command.”

 

 

With Henry on our team, we flew through tasks, the three of us so comfortable and confident with one another that we required minimal discussion to get things done. Even better than having two extra hands and an extra brain in the kitchen, Henry boosted our morale by his very presence.

Lunch was due to be plated in about thirty minutes and I still hadn’t completely given up the idea of finagling a way into the West Wing to ensure President Campbell’s food made it to him safely.

Swinging past the computer, I noticed I had a new e-mail. “Excellent!” I said aloud as I read it.

“What’s up?” Cyan asked.

I turned. “Brandy says she’ll be able to help us with . . .”

I stopped.

At the opposite end of the counter, carving cherry tomatoes into tiny flower-shaped garnishes, Henry looked up. Cyan tried to prompt me. “With what? The eggs?”

“I’ve got it!” I said.

They shared another quick glance. “Great. Got what?”

“Brandy managed to get all the eggs transported back to a staging warehouse,” I said, talking quickly. “This is perfect.”

Cyan nodded, clearly dubious.

“I need to arrange to have the Secret Service pick up all the eggs. Which means I have to coordinate with Craig Sanderson. How about if I head over to the West Wing when the butlers come for the president’s lunch? I’ll be able to make sure that the meal gets there safely and while I’m there, I’ll try to snag a few minutes of Craig’s time.”

“Lame,” Cyan said.

“Maybe, but I don’t trust Cooper or Kap. I have to do this.”

“I know you do.”

Henry had been watching us, his eyebrows raised. As I started to explain, he held up a hand. “Maybe it’s best if I don’t know.”

More often than not, President Campbell held casual luncheon meetings in the White House Mess, which was the navy-run kitchen and dining room in the basement of the West Wing. The fact that he had requested today’s lunch brought in from the residence kitchen, and the fact that he was choosing to dine in the President’s Dining Room, told me that whatever this meeting was about, it was important enough to warrant privacy.

Jackson kept his eyes forward, not saying much for most of our passage across the residence. The lack of conversation was okay by me. I was salivating. But that was more from curiosity than from the delicious aromas drifting upward from the cart the butler pushed.

He and I took a roundabout path to the basement of the West Wing and when we finally arrived at the elevator that would take us to the main floor, Jackson gestured with his chin. “Secret Service office is that way.”

“I know.”

He waited a beat. “You aren’t here just to talk with Sanderson, are you?” He flicked a glance down toward the covered plates and accompaniments. “You’re making sure this food stays safe.”

I nodded.

“If I didn’t know you as well as I do, Ollie, I’d take offense.”

“Jackson, I don’t think for a minute . . .”

He held up a hand, but was interrupted when the elevator opened. We got in, Jackson backing the cart in so he could exit gracefully at the first floor. When the door closed again, he said, “I know you’re not thinking about me doing something bad to the food.” He pointed. “Brand-new salt, brand-new pepper. Freshly sterilized flatware. Everything here is clean.”

Each diner was always provided his own set of everything, including condiments—to prevent the inexcusable “boarding-house reach.” I nodded. “I’m sure it is.”

His nostrils flared. “You’re wondering about Cooper.”

Astonished by his astuteness, I nodded again.

The elevator opened and we made our way out, the cart’s contents clanking softly as we traversed the carpeted floor. “I guarantee you I am not going to turn my back on this cart for one moment.” He nodded solemnly as we walked.

“Thanks, Jackson. You’re the best.”

We’d both lowered our voices. In this wing of the White House, I was always awestruck. This was the epicenter, the heart of the free world—at least, in my unabashedly patriotic way, that’s the way I saw it. I knew from firsthand experience how much time and effort went into every decision here. While I certainly wasn’t privy to classified information, I knew the people who were. I saw the toll the weight of responsibility took on each and every member of the administration. These were good people, making the best decisions they could, every single day.

We stopped our trek just outside the President’s Dining Room. To my left was the Roosevelt Room, and straight ahead, through a small angled corridor, the Oval Office. Even after working here for so long, being in this part of the White House made my skin tingle.

With so many people navigating the hallway, Jackson wheeled the cart into the empty Roosevelt Room. Across the hall from the President’s Dining Room, and with access to the Oval Office, the windowless space housed a long table that comfortably sat sixteen. President Nixon had named the room to honor both Theodore and Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Sitting Republicans traditionally displayed Teddy Roosevelt’s
Rough Rider
painting over the mantle, and sitting Democrats traditionally displayed Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s portrait.

President Campbell, who expressed great admiration for both men, opted to feature both paintings in the room and instructed the staff to alternate the artworks’ positions so that they equally shared the position of prestige.

“Good thing you’re here,” Jackson said. “I can use the help.” There were butlers he could have called, but we had an unspoken agreement: The fewer people involved, the better we could keep our suspicions under wraps. Although I knew this was probably overkill, neither one of us wanted to leave anything to chance. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

While he disappeared into the dining room across the hall, I waited near the Roosevelt Room’s doorway, the serving cart directly behind me. I knew Jackson was preparing the dining table for the meal. Seconds later, he emerged, dodging several staffers in the hall as they walked past. “We may serve.”

Usually, at dinner, the butlers handled no more than one plate at a time. In fact, at the most formal affairs, all guests are served at the same moment by individual butlers. It’s quite a sight. Since today’s luncheon was informal, however, Jackson carried in one plate of baby greens with raspberry vinaigrette dressing for the president, then came back for the other two plates.