All the President’s Menus (21 page)

“What makes you believe that?” I asked.

“We are workers. We do not belong at a fancy dinner.”

Nate chimed in. “Kerry Freiberg was a worker once, too.”

“She makes people believe she is one of them,” Hector said. “She tells them she will give them a voice.”

“Then I can understand why she’s so popular,” I said, treading carefully. “I would imagine it would be a great opportunity to have dinner with her. A chance to get to know your candidate personally. Not to mention that I’m sure she’ll be very interested to hear how this visit went for you.”

“We should be preparing the dinner, not sitting at the table,” Tibor said again. “It is not my place.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“This candidate is attempting to Westernize Saardisca. She is bringing America’s way of thinking to our people. She tries to make citizens believe that everyone is equal.”

“Aren’t they?” I asked.

Tibor scowled. It was a look I’d grown used to, so much that it didn’t unnerve me anymore. “Of course not.”

Hector and Nate seemed to find Tibor’s outbursts comical. Nate tried to conceal a smile but Tibor noticed. “I should be the chef to help Marcel,” he said with a haughty look at his colleagues. “Kilian was the most accomplished of us all. Now I am at the top.” He stared at all of us in turn, as though daring us to contradict him.

Hector gave him no more than an indifferent glance. Nate continued to smirk.

“I will join them in the pastry kitchen where I will be of most value,” Tibor said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned to me. “If that meets with your approval, that is.”

“Be my guest,” I said, ignoring the condescension in his tone. “Go ahead. I’m sure Marcel will be grateful for the help.”

The moment the cranky chef left the main kitchen to head upstairs, I turned my back to the men on the pretense of checking supplies in one of our cabinets. Once I made sure no one was paying any attention, I flicked the mini recorder back on.

“Bucky,” I exclaimed when I turned back around and found my assistant chef sauntering in, “Tibor just left to go upstairs.”

Bucky hitched a thumb toward the corridor. “I passed him on my way. Perfect timing. Marcel is wrapping up his dessert demonstration for Cleto and is about to get down to serious work.”

“Great,” I said. “We’ve been pretty quiet down here.” That was a complete contradiction, given Tibor’s fiery outburst, but neither Nate nor Hector seemed to care enough to correct me.

Across the central countertop I met Bucky’s curious gaze. He was silently asking me if I’d turned the recorder on. I pulled in a shaky breath and gave the briefest of nods. He winked.

With the device humming against my left arm, I smiled. We were live, once again.

With my fingers crossed and recorder running, all I needed was for our Saardiscan friends to get chatty.

It didn’t take long.

Nate and Hector began slowly. Judging from their cadence and the occasional name they dropped as they spoke, I got the impression that they were discussing Tibor. Whatever they were saying—and after a week I was still too lost to pick up more than moods to help me discern context—led me to believe that neither man was overly fond of the other chef.

We all kept busy with our individual tasks for the day, so the fact that Bucky and I worked in silence apart from them was not something that might arouse suspicion. At least, I hoped not.

When the two men appeared to drop Tibor as a topic, they yakked amiably for a little longer. This time it sounded like they were trading good-natured insults. They eventually lapsed into an extended silence.

When they had been quiet for longer than I could stand, I pulled up one of the planning pages I’d been working on and turned to Bucky. “I’m wondering if you and I should go over to Blair House today rather than wait. I’m really itching to get a closer look at the kitchen.”

Hector and Nate glanced up at me when I mentioned Blair House, but otherwise didn’t seem interested in our conversation.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Bucky said. “You never know what surprises there are in store.”

“We don’t need any more surprises,” I agreed. “The sooner we have a handle on all aspects of this event, the better we can deal with last-minute changes.” Looking over at Nate and Hector, I added, “Believe it or not, all these updates aren’t unusual for us. We’re used to working around constantly shifting plans.”

“This week has been normal?” Nate asked, aghast.

I hastened to clarify. “I’m talking about dinner plans. Marcel’s and Hector’s fainting spells, and Kilian’s collapse are not normal in the least.” I tightened my eyes. “Poor Kilian. I know he would have created a wonderful dessert with a traditional Saardiscan flair to it. I’m sorry he never had the chance to show us the depth of his talent.”

Hector kept his head down. “Kilian was a good teacher. I am sorry, too. He should have been more careful.”

“Careful?” I asked. “What do you mean by that?”

Nate patted his stomach, then answered, “You saw Kilian. He did not pay attention to what was good for him.”

“There are a lot of overweight people in the world,” Bucky said. “Kilian didn’t strike me as a particularly sickly person.”

Nate shook his head solemnly. “Many graves are filled with people who have much forewarning of death. Kilian was one of the most unfortunate who did not pay attention that he was in trouble.” Shrugging, he finished with, “I am sorry he is gone, too, but Kilian has only himself to blame.”

“From what I’ve heard, he had some heart issues,” I said. “Is that what you’re talking about?”

Nate, who had been the quietest of the bunch since the chefs had first arrived in our kitchen, seemed to be embarrassed to find himself thrust in the limelight. “It no longer matters for Kilian, does it?”

The kitchen grew quiet after that discussion. Bucky worked at his end of the room and I at mine, with Nate and Hector across from me. My goal, originally, had been to bring up Kilian’s name in conversation, hoping that would spur a discussion between the two Saardiscans in their native language. I wanted to know, once and for all, if they had any knowledge of—or even suspected—foul play.

I returned to working on the spreadsheets, hoping the two men would pick up the thread of conversation.

They both watched me for longer than I would have expected. From time to time I looked up, making eye contact and smiling. They kept working as they watched, and in what seemed to be an unspoken agreement, Hector turned to Nate and asked him something in Saardiscan.

I didn’t even look up. I could tell from the faint trembling against my arm that my mini tape recorder was still running. It took all my willpower not to hold my breath as Nate answered Hector with a harsh rebuke. Hector made apologetic noises.

A moment later, Nate started the conversation again, this time calmly, in a voice that was so low I feared the recorder might not catch it.

In an effort not to listen, I strove with all my might to keep my movements and body language communicating oblivious indifference. I also did my best to work as silently as possible, recognizing that noises I made near the machine could risk drowning the men’s conversation out when we finally listened in.

Keeping my eyes on the pages before me, I nonchalantly tugged at my smock while I pretended to study my notes, hoping to convince them of my deep concentration. Mostly I hoped they didn’t notice me at all. How they couldn’t hear my pulse pound in my ears, or notice the heat that crept up from my chest, I didn’t know.

Even though I operated in stealth, even though there was absolutely no way for them to know what I was attempting, the awareness that I was stalking them in this way made me nervous. Perhaps I’d simply had one too many close calls in my life, but the fact that we had three fainting incidents and one death on our hands this past week made me leery.

Gav always encouraged me to trust my gut. Right about now it was ringing like a semaphore, warning of an oncoming freight train. The problem was that I couldn’t find my way off the tracks to safety. To say I was unsettled was an understatement.

I managed to find a reason to shift positions and work a little closer to the men. They’d relaxed quite a bit, or so I gathered from their casual gestures and the easy rhythm of their words. Yet, whatever they were discussing—in fits and starts—seemed to be of great importance to both. There were a few consonant-heavy syllables that they repeated again and again.

Marcel, Tibor, and Cleto returned to the main kitchen a bit later. We’d kept busy while they were gone, Bucky and I working in silence while Nate and Hector carried on like two buddies meeting for a beer after work.

Marcel fairly sailed into the room, using his good arm to gesture grandly behind him, toward Cleto and Tibor, who followed him in. “I present my prototype,” Marcel announced. “Tell me what you think.”

Cleto carried a small plant in his large hands. If I hadn’t known better, I would have assumed it to be a real flower in a ceramic bowl. A spherical pot of bright blue housed a single, vivid orange bloom atop a delicate green stem adorned with diminutive leaves. Lifelike, and quivering with graceful elegance, its austere beauty took my breath away.

“Oh, Marcel,” I said. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“It is merely a first attempt,” he said. Though he waved my praise away I could tell my reaction had pleased him. “I will admit that creating these prototypes was exceptionally difficult given my impairment.” He raised his casted arm, slightly. “Fortunately, however, my fingers remain unaffected.” He made a pincer motion with his index finger and thumb to demonstrate, then nodded at Cleto and Tibor. “Together with able assistance from these two gentlemen, I have managed what seemed impossible.” Marcel then picked up an empty tray, but clearly had no reason for doing so other than to make himself look busy and pretend to be utterly unmoved by our collective admiration. His eyes, however, expectant and bright, scanned our faces, eager for more.

The look of pure awe Cleto displayed made me smile because I knew precisely what he was feeling. “Marcel is a master,” he said in a soft voice. “I have never encountered such a beautiful dessert.” He turned to me. “Despite the fact that he created this work of art right before my eyes, I still am unable to believe it.”

Even the stubborn Tibor’s eyes shone with appreciation for Marcel’s talent, and perhaps, too, for his kind words. He said nothing, however, and turned away when I looked at him.

“We need to put the finishing touches on plans for Kerry Freiberg’s dinner,” I said once we’d all sufficiently cooed over Marcel’s lovely sugar poppy. “Time is running short. Bucky and I were thinking about walking over to Blair House later today, to get a feel for where we’ll be preparing your dinner. Would any of you care to join us?”

Nate looked over to Hector with a “How about it?” expression. Hector seemed to answer with, “Whatever.”

“We will accompany you,” Nate said. “We would like, very much, to see how the United States houses dignitaries.” His smile grew wide. “I cannot imagine the accommodations being more luxurious than what we have at our hotel, but your country continues to astonish me with what you have to offer.”

Tibor’s gaze flipped from me, to Hector and Nate, then to Cleto, then back to me. He didn’t say a word, but I could read scorn in his eyes. Why he was so opposed to this dinner, I couldn’t imagine. Even if Kerry Freiberg’s world views were different from his, Tibor had made it clear that he would do as he was told. The only thing that I could think of was that he didn’t support her as a candidate, and knew that his hair-trigger temper could get him into trouble.

“I’ll have to clear the visit with Peter Sargeant,” I said, “but I would imagine we could walk over when we’re finished for the day. I’ll be sure to keep you both informed.”

The matter settled, I started across the kitchen, through one if its narrowest sections, making my way to the computer to e-mail Sargeant with my request.

“I would like to accompany you to Blair House as well,” Marcel said. “Would that be agreeable to you, Olivia?”

I turned to answer, too late noticing that Marcel had taken that very moment to squeeze behind me. The two of us collided, but not before he had a split-second chance to swing his injured limb out of harm’s way. He lost his one-handed grip on the tray he was carrying and as it clattered to the floor, his cast slid up along the arm of my smock, bumping the bottom of the miniature tape recorder.

The rubber band broke, stinging as it snapped against my forearm.

I reacted instinctively, grabbing my arm with the opposite hand, doing my best to keep the tape recorder from springing from its perch. My fingers came up empty, save for a handful of sleeve. I could feel the solid mass tumble against my arm and I grasped again and missed, cognizant of the attention I was generating. I must have looked like a crazed person, fighting to free a bug from under her clothing.

In a surge of brilliance, I jerked my hand up, hoping gravity would drop the recorder into the elbow of my sleeve. The movement, however—centrifugal force at its finest—served to jettison the device out my cuff like a missile. It shot away from me, dropped to the floor, and broke into two pieces, one of which slid across the room like a hockey puck.

The entire episode took less than ten seconds, but by the time the tiny tape recorder was exposed, everyone in the room had his eyes on it. And me.

Thinking fast as I crouched to retrieve the device, I assumed the most nonchalant air I could muster. “I guess I won’t be listening to my favorite music anytime soon.”

My heart all but stopped in fear that I’d broken the thing, thereby losing whatever Saardiscan conversation I’d recorded, and panic that one of the visitors would recognize the slim gadget for what it was.

To my relief, the recorder’s back had simply separated from the body, but to my horror, Nate leaned down to help me pick the pieces up.

He beat me to the working half of the recorder as I wrapped my hand around the plastic backing. Nate turned the little machine over in his hand, then tightened his fist around it as he took a step closer. Metal cracked. Or was that terror splitting my gut? Bucky, Marcel, and the others waited, as though every single one of them understood what was at stake here. I knew Bucky did. I prayed the rest were oblivious.

“This is not from an iPod,” Nate said with a curious look on his face. “Even in Saardisca, we have iPods.” He reached for the rest of the recorder, still in my hand, but I pulled away. The look on his face read perplexed, but the gleam in his eye made my pulse shift into high gear.

“Thanks.” I reached to snatch the recorder from his hand, but he held tight.

“What is it?” he asked.

When he tilted his head just so, I knew he knew precisely what it was.

“Mine,” I said, because I couldn’t come up with a convincing lie fast enough. “For music. It’s old.” My brain ordered my mouth to stop explaining, but I blathered on. “Had it forever. I should probably invest in a new one.”

“One that doesn’t fall out of its hiding place so easily,” Nate said. “New ones are far better for that.” He squeezed tight, cracking it one more time before handing it back to me, pressing into my palm with more force than necessary, and holding a moment too long. “You say this type of device is for music, yes? So you may play back everything later?” When he finally let go, he did so with a humorless smile. “You will find that your recordings are of poor quality. And perhaps this one is now broken for good.”

“Um, thank you,” I said.

But he wasn’t finished. “You would be better served to purchase downloads,” he said, “if it truly is
music
you’re after.”

Bucky had remained silent, but piped in now to help. “Ollie, Ollie,” he said in a high, chastising tone. “I’ve been after you to get a new player for years.” Turning toward Nate, he gave an exaggerated wink. I knew my assistant was trying to cover for me, but we were coming across like a clumsy scene from a bad B-movie. “With any luck this one is broken so you’ll be forced to buy a new version.”