The third agent from this morning’s car ride came in. The weak link. I fixed him with a smile before he had a chance to join his comrades. “Hi,” I said. “What’s your name?”
He looked perplexed by the question, but answered. “Snyabar.”
The Guzy brothers exchanged a look as I stood up. “Agent Snyabar,” I began, “I think we’ve gotten off to a bad start here.”
Snyabar moved closer to the Guzy brothers, who stepped apart to allow him into their midst. I advanced, noting that the little chef was causing the big Secret Service agents to circle their wagons.
“Please return to your seat, Ms. Paras,” the first Guzy said. “You will be summoned by the investigators soon.”
“Really, is all this necessary?” I asked.
The way the three men stared straight ahead, without even acknowledging that I’d spoken, scared me most of all. We were trusted White House staff members. At least, we had been yesterday. Right now I felt vulnerable-and guilty. I even started to doubt myself. Could there have been some combination of spices, foods, or beverages that was toxic to Carl Minkus? Was there some way I could have known this?
I was about to try breaking the Secret Service barrier again, when the door opened, and Peter Everett Sargeant III strode in. “Ah,” he said. “Here you are.”
I found it unlikely that he’d been looking for me for any valid reason. Peter Everett Sargeant and I had never gotten along. I’d say that we didn’t see eye to eye, but I believed the fact that we were almost the same height was exactly the problem. Peter was an incredibly short fellow, obsequious and ingratiating to everyone in power, but condescending and obnoxious to those below him, and especially staffers who were shorter than he was. Which was… me.
“Is there something you need, Peter?”
Our Secret Service guards, surprisingly, didn’t scold me. Apparently talking among ourselves was verboten, but conversing with the angry chief of cultural and faith-based etiquette affairs was not.
Sargeant paced in front of Cyan and Bucky, his hands clasped in front of him. “Well, well, well,” he said. “How the mighty have fallen.”
I folded my arms. “Care to explain?”
The agents shifted their weight, in sequence. Guzy One stretched his neck, then glanced at the door.
Sargeant’s little eyes narrowed as he came close. “Do you have any idea the trouble we’re dealing with out there?” He gestured vaguely toward the residence. “The trouble you’ve caused?”
That got my back up. “I don’t believe it’s been proven that the kitchen had anything to do with Carl Minkus’s death. And until that time, I’ll thank you to stop pointing fingers.”
One corner of his mouth curled up. “Just wait, Ms. Paras. I’ve heard things.”
I must have reacted, because Sargeant’s smile got a little bigger. “Yes, it seems Agent Minkus commented about his meal, right before he collapsed.”
We were talking about a person’s death here, and yet Sargeant seemed almost gleeful in his explanation as he continued. “Something was most definitely wrong with the meal and it won’t be long before every finger points at you.” He sniffed, glancing as he did at Cyan and Bucky. “At all of you.”
I couldn’t stop myself. “What did Minkus say?”
At the far end of the room, the door opened and someone called for me.
Sargeant didn’t reply, but before I could ask him again, Guzy One stepped between us. “Ms. Paras, you’ve been summoned.”
“But…” I sputtered.
“Now,” Guzy said. He nipped my elbow between his thumb and forefinger and guided me toward the door.
I wasn’t done with Sargeant. Even though I was sure he was baiting me, I couldn’t stop myself from asking again. “Minkus said something about the food?”
“He most certainly did.” Sargeant’s eyes glittered.
What kind of person found enjoyment only when someone else was suffering?
He raised a hand and gave me a little finger wave. “I’ll fill you in later. I’ll be here,” he said. “And with any luck, you won’t.”
CHAPTER 5
GUZY ONE SHUTTLED ME OUT OF THE EAST Wing into the main residence and up to the first floor. The walk through the majestic entrance and cross hall-which I’d done hundreds of times-should have felt comforting and familiar. But all I could concentrate on were the echoing squishes of my shoes against the marble floor and Agent Guzy’s brisk clip-clip-clip beside me.
I’d assumed we were headed to Paul Vasquez’s office, but instead wound up in the State Dining Room, where it appeared the authorities had set up a command post. The prior evening’s dinner had been served in the adjacent Family Dining Room. That, to me, was a misnomer because when the First Family dined together, they tended to congregate upstairs in the private quarters. This Family Dining Room was on the main floor and the Campbells often used it for intimate business dinners, like last night’s had been.
There were dozens of Secret Service agents in the State Dining Room. Several folding tables had been brought in and computers set up. There were uniformed agents as well as PPD agents, and I quickly scanned the room, looking for Tom.
Being short is a major disadvantage because I was lost in a sea of broad shoulders and hurrying clerks. Tom is tall, and I aimed my gaze upward, but Guzy tugged me toward the northwest corner of the room, near the pantry.
“Paul!” I said when I saw our chief usher.
Urgency must have been apparent in my voice because he left a group of agents, and hurried over to me. “Ollie, how are you holding up?”
I managed to squirm out of Guzy’s grip. “I don’t know.”
Paul winced. “This is a bad one.” He turned to Guzy and nodded. “Thank you.”
Guzy seemed perplexed by the dismissal, as though not quite sure how to take the directive from Paul. As chief usher, Paul didn’t control the PPD, but there was an understanding between him and veteran agents. Paul controlled the residence, and if he was taking responsibility for the executive chef, then Agent Guzy needed to find something else to do.
“Sir, I-”
“You’re free to go.”
Raising his voice to be heard above the din, Guzy tried harder. “But, sir-” He reached out a hand, as though to ensnare my elbow again. I sidestepped him.
From behind us, a familiar voice. “It’s okay. I got it.”
We both turned.
“Tom!” I said. Paul Vasquez rolled his eyes. Although Tom and I had tried to keep our relationship quiet amongst the White House staff, it was getting to be a joke that the only people truly unaware of the situation were the president and the First Lady themselves. And apparently Agent Guzy, too.
He looked dumbfounded. Which was quite a sight from this expressionless behemoth. “Agent MacKenzie,” he said, his tone deferential.
Tom stepped between us. “I’ll take it from here.”
I leaned up to whisper: “Bucky and Cyan.”
Tom smiled down at me, then addressed Guzy again. “Would you please see that Ms. Paras’s assistants are escorted to the Library?”
Guzy nodded. “Right away.”
When he left, Tom turned to me, asking the same thing Paul had. “How are you holding up?”
I started with my topmost concern. “My mom,” I said. “I forgot my cell phone at home. In all the excitement-”
Paul looked confused.
Tom ran a hand through his hair. “They’re arriving today?”
“They’re supposed to touch down at eight fifty this morning.”
He looked at his watch. It was just after five our time, which made it four in Chicago. “Early. Are they at the airport now?”
“They should be.” I shrugged. “But I have no idea.”
Paul cleared his throat. “The investigators need to talk with Ollie.”
Tom shepherded us toward the pantry, where I’d expected it to be quiet. Instead, there were paper-booted, latex-gloved technicians taking apart every inch of my workspace. They were covered, head to toe, in Tyvek jumpsuits and wore masks over their faces and shower caps over their heads. I could only imagine that the scene downstairs in my kitchen was worse. I groaned.