When it was finally just me in the backseat of the limo, I tried once again, this time in vain, to get Jeffrey to talk.
I sat in silence for the long ride back toward Crystal City, watching the world pass me by-slowly-unable to find beauty in the burgeoning spring just outside my window. Of course, poor Carl Minkus wasn’t appreciating the fresh greenery either.
I thought back to my conversation with Bucky and wondered if someone had done Mr. Minkus deliberate harm. I had to believe the Secret Service and the Metropolitan Police were asking the same question.
I should let it go.
I had enough on my plate figuring out how Carl Minkus died. I had to worry about the Easter Egg Roll on Monday, the welcoming event afterward, and about my mom’s and grandmother’s welfare. Where were they? The fear of not knowing overwhelmed me.
The morning’s weather had shifted and the storms had moved out of the area. Skies were clear without a cloud. Clear enough for takeoffs.
I watched a southbound plane traverse the solid blueness above and gave silent thanks. At least I knew they weren’t on that one. With the direction this one was going, it was probably headed for Atlanta, or Orlando. I allowed myself a small smile. Find blessings where you can, I reminded myself.
And then the plane turned. Headed west.
I stared at the back of the driver’s head and tried not to think about missed opportunities.
CHAPTER 7
MRS. WENTWORTH WAS COMING OUT OF HER apartment just as I made it to my door. One of her hands was wrapped, claw-like, around her cane; the other held a covered plate. “Ollie!” she said. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
As neighbors went, Mrs. Wentworth was pretty great. She paid close enough attention to my comings and goings to know when something was wrong, but was shrewd enough not to poke her nose in when it wasn’t needed. Well, not too often.
“Sorry,” I said, holding up my keys. “Can’t talk today, I-”
My door was open. Just a crack. But enough to startle me speechless. I knew I’d pulled it closed behind me this morning. I remembered working the deadbolt, thinking that I’d yanked the door too loudly and that I might wake Mrs. Wentworth up. Although from what I could tell, the woman never slept. Had someone broken in?
I took a step back, putting my hand up to silence whatever Mrs. Wentworth might say next. But she didn’t take the hint. “Ollie,” she began.
“Shh,” I said, then crept forward.
There were voices coming from inside my apartment. A quick laugh. Familiar voices.
Mrs. Wentworth tapped me with the foot of her cane. “They’re here. Your mother and your grandmother.” Still behind me, she called out loudly, “Ollie’s home!”
A thousand questions flew through my mind at once. I knew I’d never given Mrs. Wentworth my key-although that was an oversight I’d meant to correct for years. I also knew that James, the doorman who knew me best, was out of town this week. I couldn’t imagine anyone contacting the building supervisor to allow my family in. They didn’t know my mom and nana, but they all knew I worked for the White House. Nobody would have been allowed in without my approval.
I didn’t have any time to think because just then the door swung completely open and my mother stepped out, wrapping me in a bear hug. I hugged back, surprised, relieved, and completely joyful, all at once. Heat threatened to close my throat, but I managed to croak, “Mom.”
She squeezed tighter, then let me go long enough to hold me at arm’s length. “You look wonderful,” she said, her wide eyes taking me in. “You are even more beautiful than you were last time I saw you.”
I opened my mouth and told her that she looked beautiful, too. And she did. But she was shorter, and older than I remembered. Her hair was cut differently, and she’d let it go gray. The contrast between it and her olive skin gave her an overall wizened appearance. There was still the quiet strength that I remembered in her bearing-for all her disdain of flying, she was one of the most fearless women I knew-but today she looked more vulnerable than she ever had in my life. I’d joined the White House as a Service by Agreement-SBA-chef during the prior administration, and I hadn’t been home in all that time. Sure, it had been a while. But to me, it looked like my mother had aged.
“Ollie?”
The second most fearless woman I knew grabbed me with both hands, pulling me away from Mom. “Nana,” I said, bending down to give her a hug. A tiny woman, Nana was always wiry, always gray-haired. She hadn’t changed so much. Her bright eyes sparkled and her face blossomed with wrinkled glee. “You didn’t tell us,” she said, shaking a finger at me.
“Didn’t tell you what?”
Mrs. Wentworth knocked me with her cane again. “Move over, honey,” she said. “I’m bringing my biscotti. Your family’s never tried it.”
My confusion was profound. “How did you get in?”
Instead of answering, my mother took me by the arm. “You must be hungry.”
I was, but until that moment hadn’t noticed. “I tried calling you,” I said. “Over and over.”
Nobody seemed to pay me much mind.
I stopped walking and placed a hand on my mother’s arm. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“I turned it off.”
That took me aback. “Why did you do that?”
“We knew you were busy,” she said with a perplexed look, “and we were already here.”
Mrs. Wentworth had tottered over to my kitchen table and was uncovering the dish while Nana looked on. They were two elderly women, separated in age by only a few years, and they seemed to be entirely too comfortable with one another to have only just met.
“How did you get here?”
Nana held a chair out for me, which seemed ridiculous. I was by far the youngest person in the room, I should be holding out a chair for her. But she pointed with authority. “We ate. You make yourself comfortable and we’ll warm something up.”
Mrs. Wentworth settled herself across from me and sampled one of her biscotti. She smiled as the dry cookie snapped between her teeth. “My favorite,” she said.
“More tea?” Nana asked her.
“Please.”
“Somebody please tell me what’s happening here,” I said, exasperated. “I’ve been worried sick about you all day and I’m thrilled to see you here, but… how?” I looked to Mrs. Wentworth, who had taken another dainty bite. “Did the super let them in?”
My mom half turned from reaching into the refrigerator. She locked eyes with Mrs. Wentworth and then with Nana. Like a shared joke.
Mrs. Wentworth chewed, then swallowed, as Nana poured hot water over a new teabag. “Why don’t I let your mother tell you?”
“Mom?”
With her back to me, my mom shook her head. Her voice was a playful scold. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
How could I have told them? I’d been debriefed in meetings all morning. But that didn’t mean they hadn’t seen it on the news. “Tell you?” I asked. “You mean about the dead guest?”
The three of them stopped. My mom turned. “What dead guest?”
“The one at the-” I stopped myself. Living with my mom and nana as I had for years before striking out on my own had prepared me for such disjointed conversations. But it had been a long time and I was out of practice. With my fist against my forehead and the other hand raised to halt further talk until my brain could catch up, I grabbed the floor before anyone else could beat me to it. “First things first. Tell me how you got here, and how you got in.”
The alarm in their eyes at my “dead guest” comment hovered a moment, but they read my anxiety and decided to let the matter drop, for now. Their faces relaxed into tiny, conspiratorial smiles.
My mom set a plate of food in front of me, but I didn’t even notice what she’d prepared because her eyes met mine and held tight. “Tom,” she said.