“He was trying to combat terrorism,” Mom said as she poured a mug of coffee for Nana. “Minkus, that is. I don’t really remember McCarthy.”
“Pffft. A poor excuse to invade a person’s privacy if you ask me.”
Mom and I made eye contact. I wondered what had caused this outburst. As though I’d asked the question aloud, Nana licked her lips and leaned toward me. “Look, I’m sorry this Minkus guy is dead. Not for his sake, mind you, but because of how it’s affecting you. I saw what Joe McCarthy did to this country, and this Minkus guy was doing the same thing-all in the name of national security. He was making a name for himself by making other people’s lives miserable. That’s a hell of a thing.” She reached out to grab another section of the newspaper as she gestured to mine. “I’ll take that when you’re done.”
“Gladly.” I started to close the paper when I caught sight of another article on page two. This one by Howard Liss in his Liss Is More daily column. “Uh-oh.”
“What?” Mom asked.
To me, Howard Liss always looked like an aging hippie. His picture stared up at me, his salt-and-pepper hair pulled tight into a ponytail, which draped forward over his right shoulder. Whatever that signified. He wore one hoop earring, and a cocksure grin. “Liss,” the caption read, “is always more.”
“This guy.” I snapped my finger against his face. “He’s covering the Minkus story. And if I’m right, he’s going to blame it on some right-wing conspiracy group.”
I was wrong. He blamed it on me.
I’m not suggesting the president hire a professional taster, as monarchs did in the olden days to prevent assassination by poisoning, but I am asking the question: How safe is the food we serve to our administration? What real safeguards are in place? Who watches the chefs? Is our president’s security really left up to the woman who has made a name for herself by allegedly saving the president’s bacon, not once, but twice? Could our current executive chef, Ms. Olivia Paras (whose name you will recognize from prior action-packed features), be getting bored with her day-to-day cooking responsibilities? Could her taste for excitement have pushed her over the edge to take unnecessary chances with Sunday night’s dinner?
How dare he!
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
“This… this…” I couldn’t find the words to express my fury. “He thinks I did this. He thinks I did this on purpose!”
Carl Minkus’s untimely demise may serve as a valuable wakeup call. If we act now, we have a chance to save others from preventable disasters. Let’s not be so quick to assume that Minkus was targeted by someone he was planning to investigate. Let’s take a closer look at our own house first-the president’s house. Maybe a little negligence? Maybe a strong need for attention? Maybe things just got out of hand? Perhaps someone added more than an extra teaspoon of salt to the soup.
“This is ridiculous!” I said, standing up. “What is he thinking? I’ll sue him for libel. Or slander. Or whatever it is you sue for when people make up lies.”
My mom read where I pointed. “He puts it all in question format,” she said. “He isn’t saying you’re guilty. He’s asking, ‘What if?’ ”
I headed to the phone to call Paul, then belatedly realized I’d unplugged it. “Aaah!” I said when I picked up the dead receiver. Mom and Nana stared at me with twin looks of pained confusion. They didn’t know what to do. Neither did I.
“How do I fight something like this?” I asked.
Nana picked up the paper. “This guy is a nutcase.”
“That doesn’t make it any easier for me.”
Mom shrugged. “No one will pay his article any attention.”
“I thought this guy was a liberal,” Nana said.
“I thought so, too. Why do you ask?”
She pointed. “Here, further down he talks about what a great guy Minkus was and what a blow this is to the country. He says Minkus was respected by heroes and criminals alike.”
I came to stand behind her. “What an odd thing to say. I would have thought someone like Liss would never support someone like Minkus.”
“I’m telling you, honey, that’s why nobody will even remember this come tomorrow.”
My cell phone vibrated and I looked at the number. Tom. “Hello?” I said. I caught myself smiling. Mom and Nana exchanged knowing glances.
“How are things?” he asked.
“I’ve been better.”
“Did you read today’s paper?” he asked.
“How could I miss it?”
“I’m sorry you have to go through this, Ollie.” After a moment he asked, “How’s the family settling in?”
I walked into the living room. “Pretty well. Things aren’t going quite the way I’d hoped. Did you get my message?” I’d left him an effusive voicemail the night before, thanking him for taking care of my mom and nana and bringing them safely to my apartment. “I really appreciate all you did for me yesterday. If you hadn’t picked them up…”
“Ah,” he said, deflecting. “I was happy to do it. Hey, what do you have planned today?”
“My mom and nana want to go to Arlington.”
“Visit your dad’s grave?”
“They haven’t been here since he died, and now that I happen to have so much free time on my hands-”
“Do you have any time this morning?”
“What did you have in mind?”
I could almost see him shrug. “I don’t have to be back until noon, so I figured maybe, if you wanted to go for coffee or something…”
“You want to come up here?”
“No,” he said, almost too quickly. “I think you and I need to talk.”
I swallowed. “That sounds ominous.”
He gave a half-hearted laugh. “Sorry. I just meant it would be better if we could meet one-on-one.” He quickly added, “Not that I don’t want to see your family. They’re great. I just would rather we have a chance to meet alone.”
When I got off the phone and returned to the kitchen, Mom and Nana were waiting expectantly.
“We’re meeting for coffee,” I said.
“He doesn’t want to come up here?”
“Busy day. He’s got to get to work,” I explained. Being part of the Presidential Protective Detail-the elite of the Secret Service-meant that more often than not, our relationship came second to his schedule. I was used to it. Often, my responsibilities took precedence over our relationship, too. That might change over time; it might not. “He only has an hour or so.”
“As long as we’re not holding you back,” Mom said.
I put my arm around her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You could never hold me back.”
Tom was already at the restaurant when I arrived. We’d been coming to this out-of-the way place almost since we’d started seeing one another. Although it came up short in romantic inspiration, Froggie’s offered all-day breakfast and endless cups of coffee, served by a staff that still hand-wrote receipts and called customers “hon.”
We settled ourselves in an aqua vinyl booth, a framed photo of artfully arranged scrambled eggs on the wall next to us. “You hungry?” I asked.
Tom pushed the laminated menu away with a grimace. “Nah.”
“Just coffee,” I said to the waitress who appeared at our table.
“You got it.” She turned both our mugs upright, poured, and collected our menus.
“So, what’s up?” I asked when she was gone.
Tom stared down at the dark brew in his mug, like the coffee had said something nasty to him.
Uh-oh,I thought. I didn’t like the feel of this. The look on his face made my heart pound faster, and my neck sweat. I thought if I came up with a witty comment I might relieve the tension, change the subject. But I couldn’t come up with anything.