The moment he was gone, Bucky wiped his hands on his apron. “That’s the most civil he’s ever been to you. He was almost pleasant. What’s going on?”
“I think he’s scared,” I said. “He and I happened across a horrific scene and I bet he can’t get the images out of his mind. I know I can’t.” I thrummed my fingers on the countertop. “He and I are in the exact same boat. I think he believes that if we stick together, we’ll stay safer that way.” I thought about it. “Or should I say, he hopes
he
will stay safer that way.”
Cyan laughed. “Just what you need, Ollie, Peter Everett Sargeant as your best bud.”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
When Virgil returned, Bucky’s mood still hadn’t improved. “Where did you go to put those club covers? Maryland?” he asked, mimicking Virgil’s comment to me the day before.
Virgil smiled, showing teeth. “You’re hilarious. You should be on television.”
I knew what was coming.
Virgil went in for the jab. “Because then I could shut you off.”
“Boys,” I said, “let’s not get out of hand. We’ll probably
be feeding a lot of people again tonight. There’s no time to waste.”
“Speaking of time,” Virgil said. He waited for us to bite.
No one did.
“
Time
magazine will be interviewing me.”
Okay, that caught our attention.
“Don’t tell me,” Bucky said, “Man of the Year?”
“Ha-ha. Not exactly. The piece isn’t for
Time
magazine itself,” he amended. “It will appear in one of its sister publications.”
“Congratulations, Virgil,” I said.
“I’m not sure when the interview is to take place, but they definitely want pictures of me at work on the First Family’s meals.”
“You know you’ll have to clear that with Doug,” I said. “Plus, it would be nice if we had a heads-up so we can make this place presentable.”
“Not down here,” he said. “They want pictures of me working in the family kitchen. Upstairs.”
“Good,” I said, “then it doesn’t really affect us.”
“Except you’ll have to handle the First Family’s meals while I’m tied up.”
“I thought that’s what they were here to document.”
“I’m not making myself clear. They’re coming here to do a story on me and on what I do day to day to feed the First Family. I won’t actually be preparing their meals that day. I’ll be demonstrating my kitchen prowess.”
“Oh,” I said, “my mistake.” With so much on my mind, the last thing I needed was to worry about Virgil’s not-ready-for-
Time
interview. “Just let us know when you’ll be gone. Fair enough?”
Doug appeared in the doorway. “Ollie, we’re ready for you.”
“So soon?” I asked. I hadn’t had time to change my smock, but it looked presentable enough. I untied my apron and threw on a sweater to make me look less kitcheny. “Okay, let’s go,” I said and followed him out the door.
We made our way to the press briefing room via a
different route than I expected. I’d been worried about how we would get past the press in their cubbyholes if we took the direct route through the Palm Room. But Doug veered outside along the West Colonnade, taking us back into the West Wing near the Cabinet Room before doubling back to the briefing room from the other side.
As we stood just outside the doorway that led to the Brady Press Briefing Room, I shivered from being outside, even for that short walk. This was the doorway where all the big shots always stood before facing the cameras. What in the world was I doing here? I felt small yet ridiculously conspicuous.
I couldn’t see around the doorway to watch the goings-on, but I was okay with that. If I couldn’t see the press, they couldn’t see me. Here in this bustling back room they had plenty of monitors; I staked a spot near one of them to watch as the president and Quinones family took the podium. President Hyden, looking very somber, talked about the goodness of strangers and how Secretary Quinones’s father-
in-law, Mr. Bettencourt, had been returned to safety because people in this world care enough to look out for one another. At that point, he turned the lectern over to the secretary of state.
Quinones was a large man—tall and muscular but not fat. His features were well-defined and his hair still full and dark. I guessed him to be about fifty-five years old. While he’d once been President Hyden’s political rival, the two now worked together on foreign policy with the fervor of lifelong friends. One of the reasons Mrs. Hyden was organizing this big birthday bash was to cement their new friendship. According to all pundits, President Hyden had chosen well for this position. Quinones was a powerful ally, universally loved by his constituents.
He didn’t speak for very long. He simply offered sincere thanks for the safe return of his father-in-law. The camera angle widened to encompass the secretary, his wife, and her father. If there had been any intention of having Mrs. Quinones take the microphone, those plans were quickly
scrapped. Holding on to her father’s arm, she tried without success to fight back sobs.
Quinones finished, then stepped aside for President Hyden to take the lectern. “We are all very pleased that Mr. Bettencourt has been returned home,” the president said, “but now I must turn the discussion to a very grave matter…”
At that point, the White House press secretary came through the doorway, escorting Mrs. Quinones and her father. Secretary Quinones brought up the rear.
Mrs. Quinones’s face was even more red and puffy than it had appeared on television. Although her hair and makeup were perfect, her face was crumpled and she hiccupped with nearly every breath. Her father patted her hand and asked if everything was all right.
“I’m just so relieved,” she said between breaths, “relieved you’re safe.”
Bettencourt smiled and continued to pat her hand.
The press secretary led the two away as Doug presented me to Secretary of State Quinones. He towered over me. Gav was tall, but Quinones beat him by several inches at least. The man smiled down at me. “So you are the angel who saved the day for our family,” he said, grasping my hand with both of his. “Thank you so much, Ms. Paras. You have done a rare and wonderful thing.”
“No,” I started to say, “anyone would have—”
“Don’t be modest,” Quinones said, with a glance in the direction his wife had gone. “I only wish Cecelia could have thanked you personally as well. But she’s very emotional right now. I know she will feel terrible later that she didn’t take the time to speak with you.”
“It’s fine, really,” I said. “I understand.”
“If there’s anything I can ever do for you,” Quinones added as he let go of my hand, “just say the word. We owe you.”
I just wanted to get back to the kitchen. “Thank you.”
Sargeant was in the kitchen when I got there. “How did it go? Did they mention us at all?”
I was about to answer when I noticed Virgil removing his apron. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“His big interview has been rescheduled,” Bucky said. “They just called.”
“What?”
“He’s taking off for the day.”
“Virgil,” I said, “this is not acceptable.”
“The First Lady wants us to be accessible to the public,” he said. “Do you want me to tell her I’m not allowed to leave the kitchen?”
“Today? Of all days? Don’t you think that your interviewers are just trying to get a scoop on the murder story? Don’t you find the timing a little convenient?”
“They’re here to talk to me. That’s it. We will be upstairs in the residence for the entirety of the interview. This has nothing to do with your murders.”
“They aren’t
my
murders,” I said, feeling heat swirl up my chest. “Did you clear this with Doug?”
“He knows about it.”
“Does he know you plan to do this
today
?”
Virgil looked at his watch. “They’ll be here in less than an hour. I have a lot to do upstairs. Don’t worry, I’ll talk with Doug.”
I raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. If the interviewer and camera crew hadn’t been cleared for today, there was no way they were getting in.
Good luck with that, buddy.
Sargeant, as always, injected himself into a conversation where he didn’t belong. “You go right ahead, Virgil. This group managed without you before. I’m sure they can do so again.”
With a smug look on his face, Virgil left.
I turned to Sargeant. “Exactly when did you take over the kitchen, Peter?”
“You know as well as I do that you’d lost that argument. Whatever the First Lady wants, she gets.”
“That doesn’t mean you can just prance in here and take over.”
Sargeant waved me off. “Did anyone at the press briefing mention us?”
“I didn’t stay. But I doubt it. They’re working hard to keep our names out of it.”
“That’s a relief.”
“My guess is that plans for the secretary of state’s birthday party will be abandoned. Especially in the wake of this tragedy.”
He didn’t seem to want to leave.
“Is there something else, Peter?”
He looked around the room as though searching for an answer. “What are you preparing today?”
Our pastry chef, Marcel, had recently shared some of his renowned puff pastry with us. I was eager to put it to good use. “We’re working on a few new appetizer and entrée ideas. Why, did you want to help?”
He frowned but still didn’t leave.
One of the pages knocked on the wall of the kitchen. “Chef Paras?” she said. “There’s someone at the gate requesting to talk to you.”
“I’m not expecting anyone. Who is it?”
She consulted her cell phone. “A Mr. Milton Folgate.”
“Milton?” I turned to Peter. “Isn’t that your nephew?”
Bucky said, “What?” and Cyan looked confused.
Sputtering, Sargeant stepped closer. “Tell Milton we refuse to see him.”
The page glanced to me for approval. Smart girl. “Whoa, a minute there, Peter,” I said. “He asked for me.” I turned back to the page. “Any idea what he wants?”
“I didn’t talk with him directly.” She consulted her phone, reading the message. “But the guard at the gate says that Mr. Folgate wants to tell you that it was really nice meeting you on the street the other day. And he says he might be able to help you find the person you’re looking for.” She looked up. “Do you have any idea what that means?”
I sure did.
Sargeant started to shoo the page out. “I told him to leave me alone. Not to bother me here. You tell him—”
“Just a second,” I said. “I’ll go.”
Sargeant was apoplectic. “What?”
“Let me just get my coat,” I said to the page. “Which gate?”
“He’s waiting at the Northwest Appointment Gate. Do you want me to show him in?”
“No, keep him there. But let him know I’m on my way.”
Sargeant was practically hopping with fury. “Fine. Have it your way. But I’m going with you.”
Cyan and Bucky looked ready to attack with questions, but they’d both been through enough situations with me to know I’d fill them in later if I could. Milton’s visit was unexpected, but the message he was delivering was clear.
The minute we were outside, Sargeant lit into me. “Don’t you understand? If you show Milton any compassion, if you give him even a glimmer of hope about getting a job here, he will be relentless forever. We won’t ever be able to get rid of him.”
Although we were another day closer to spring, the wind still buffeted us on the short walk, taking my breath away. “That’s exactly why we have to see him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Didn’t you hear what the page said?”
“Of course I did. Milton wants to talk to us about getting a job—”
“He specifically mentioned meeting us on the street.”
“So what?”
“And he said he could help us find the person we’re looking for.”
“I’m not looking for anyone.” He gave me an up and down look. “Are you?”
“Peter,” I said sharply, hoping to get him to focus, “did you talk to Milton like Paul asked you to?”
“I didn’t have time.”
I’d been afraid of that. “Well you should have made the time. Don’t you understand? He knows we were at Lexington Place that day. He also knows about the double murder. Your nephew may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer,
but he’s trying to tell us he put two and two together and that if we don’t at least talk with him, he may spill the beans to the press about our involvement.”
Sargeant huffed. He shivered, pulling his suit coat closer.
“You should have gotten your overcoat,” I said. “I would have waited.”
“You don’t really believe Milton is threatening us, do
you?”
“I don’t know him as well as you do. What do you think?”
Sargeant didn’t answer.
Milton stood just outside the guardhouse, hopping from foot to foot, blowing air into his red, chapped hands. “Hi Milton,” I said as we approached, intent on keeping things light.
The uniformed guard came out to confirm clearance. He offered to let us come inside, where it was warmer. Milton looked ready to jump at the offer, but I declined.
“Suit yourself,” the guard said and went back inside.
Sargeant grabbed his nephew’s arm and pulled him far away from the guardhouse. With the wind outside and the building tightly closed, there was no chance of being overheard, but Sargeant seemed frantic to make sure of it. “What were you thinking? Why did you come here?”
I tried to interrupt. “Peter…”
He continued to berate his nephew, who took it all with disaffected resignation, making it obvious that similar scenarios had played out their whole lives. For a minute I worried that the spit shooting out of Sargeant’s mouth would freeze into icy missiles and ping against Milton’s pudgy face. “You can’t just show up unannounced and demand to see me.”
“I came to see her.”
Sargeant looked about to launch into another unhelpful rant when I asked, “What do you want from us, Milton?”
“You know what he wants,” Sargeant said. To Milton, “It isn’t going to happen. You have no business here. Go on, before I tell the guard you threatened us.”
Unfazed, Milton directed his attention to me. “Listen,
Chef Paras, I know what went down the other day at Lexington Place. I also know what the papers aren’t telling anybody. You and Petey were there.” He pointed at me. “I’ve read about how you get involved in all sorts of crazy things at the White House, so I figured it was you who found the two dead people. Am I right?”