Back to the computer. I restored the minimized document and reread the first line. “Shrimp processing for the uninitiated.”
What the heck?
Below that were crudely described directions for cleaning shrimp. I shook my head. I hadn’t recorded this, and I doubted anyone else on my team had.
“What’s up, Ollie?” Cyan asked.
I pointed to the screen. “There’s a document here I’ve never seen before.”
“That’s weird,” she said as she began to read.
“Yeah…” Then I remembered. I snapped my fingers.
“What?”
“Sean used this computer the other day,” I said. “Remember?”
“To check his e-mail, right?”
I read the strangely worded preparations out loud: “Shrimp in a big bowl. Take them out one at a time. They can be slippery little buggers. Really hard to cut that vein thing out. See below for important safety warnings.” Mystified, I turned to Cyan. “Sean must have recorded this, but why?”
“In case he ever came here to help again?” she said, but I could tell she was as unconvinced as I. “So he didn’t forget how to do it?”
“No,” I said, scrolling down the page. “I think he recorded this for us to find.”
“For you to find, maybe.” Cyan said. “I think he liked you.”
Heaviness dropped in my heart like a lump of cold dough. Sean had indeed “liked” me, or so the First Lady had led me to believe. As I tripped past his crazy notes, I wondered why on earth he’d taken the time to write any of this up when he said he was checking e-mail.
I stopped scrolling when I saw my name.
A letter. Directed to me.
Ollie,
Hey. I don’t know how soon you’ll see this. Those shrimp are a pain to work with-did you give me that job because you think I’m a pain in your kitchen? Bucky seems annoyed that I’m on your computer. I’d swear he’s baring his teeth at me. LOL. I hope you don’t think I’m a pain. In fact I hope to pop in here more often in the coming weeks.
My heart jolted again. I bit my lip and continued to read:
Forget that for now. I’ve only got a second here before Bucky the wonder dog gets suspicious. I wanted to talk with you alone, but the more I spend time here, the more I realize that isn’t going to happen. Not today. And tomorrow’s going to be a tough one, too. I’ll be here because Aunt Elaine asked me to, and because you did. Aunt Elaine doesn’t know the people she’s dealing with as well as she thinks she does. They’ve been trying to muscle me out. But their threats are meaningless. There’s nothing to hold over my head.
But that makes me a pretty good catch, don’t you think? LOL.
Ah… I’ve said too much.
Let me know when you get this. If I’m not already dead of embarrassment, we’ll talk.
Yours,
Sean
I felt my shoulders slump.
“What’s wrong?” Cyan asked.
I scrolled back up the page, unwilling to share this with anyone else just yet. “I… I’m not sure,” I said. Pressing my fingers into my eye sockets, I rooted in my brain for ideas. What this note meant, I had no idea, but I knew with certainty this could help prove that Sean hadn’t committed suicide. I needed to get this to someone in authority-someone with the ability to prove that Sean hadn’t taken his own life.
I clicked the print command and stood up. Easing the paper out of the machine as soon as it was done, I folded it and tucked it in my pocket, then closed out the file. My stomach jostled. If Sean hadn’t taken his own life, who had taken it from him?
“You okay, Ollie?” Cyan asked. “You’re awfully pale.”
“I’m…” I swallowed. “I’m okay.”
Marcel’s arrival in the kitchen prevented me from having to explain further. In a tizzy, he stood in the doorway and begged for help.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The house. I cannot get it into the elevator,” he said.
Bucky made a disparaging noise. “If we all run over to help him, who’s going to get the hors d’oeuvres done on time?”
The clock was ticking. “Rafe,” I said, “can you get Agda to help put the appetizers together?” He nodded. Agda, having heard her name, stood up straight, apparently ready for whatever task I would assign. “Bucky,” I continued, “you’re doing fine there. Cyan will stay here, too.” I held up my splinted hand. “I’m off kitchen prep, so I’ll work with Marcel.”
More often than not, Marcel reacted first and thought things through later. I hoped that was the case now.
When I followed him into the hallway, I understood the problem. The gingerbread house was enormous. “Marcel,” I said, in awe, “this is incredible.”
Larger than last year’s gingerbread house by half, this year’s version was a meticulously perfect model of the current White House. We’d had a hard time getting the house in the elevator last year. I couldn’t imagine why Marcel had decided to up the scale. A quick glance at his distraught face convinced me not to ask.
The annual gingerbread house creation always fell under the purview of our executive pastry chef. The rest of us in the kitchen helped out where needed, of course, but Marcel enjoyed this project more than any other all year.
The house itself took more than two weeks to create. Last year’s version had weighed more than three hundred pounds, and this one was most definitely bigger. Marcel had designed this tiny mansion with staggering accuracy, creating individual baked gingerbread pieces in varying shapes and sizes and bringing them together with architectural precision.
This was no half-baked endeavor. Marcel had, in fact, made several duplicates of each section in anticipation of breakage. Every single piece was hand-crafted in proportion to the whole. The gingerbread, though edible-and delicious-was never consumed. Marcel carefully shaped individual pieces, then baked and set them aside until needed for the final construction in the China Room. I’d walked in on Marcel and his team a few times over the past couple weeks. They worked with the quiet intensity of adults, but maintained the wide-eyed optimism of school-children. Every little detail, from side walls to windowsills, was identified, numbered, and set aside for placement at exactly the right time.
Marcel had five assistants for this project. Three were SBA chefs, and two were permanent. Marcel usually made do with only one assistant, but Yi-im had proven so adept at the pastry tasks, Marcel had seized him for his own. Cross-training happened now and again in the White House, but it wasn’t the norm. Yi-im’s change of status from butler to assistant chef had caused a few raised eyebrows-particularly from the waitstaff. They weren’t happy at the prospect of having to fill another empty position.
When I finished my slow-circuit inspection of the house, I had to say it again. “This is incredible.”
“Merci,” he said, absentmindedly, his gaze flipping back and forth between the cookie house and the elevator doors. The giant structure sat on a massive piece of covered plywood, which itself sat atop one of our wheeled serving carts. The design took my breath away so completely that I nearly forgot the problem at hand-getting it up to the main floor.
Yi-im appeared from around the back of the gingerbread house. “I didn’t see you,” I said.
His cheekbones moved upward in a polite smile, but it came across more as an affectation than his being happy to see me. The dilemma of how to get this beautiful monstrosity to the Red Room was obviously weighing heavily on everyone.
“What are these?” I asked Marcel, pointing to the mansion’s edges. Small postlike structures were attached to the miniature-and I use the term loosely-White House’s corners. Like flagpoles, but without flying any banner, each inner and outer corner of the building had one of these, painted white with icing to make it less noticeable.
Marcel heaved a big sigh in front of the elevator. “I do not wish to disassemble my masterpiece,” he said with a forlorn expression. “I have just now put it together. It is exactly right. If I were to take it apart once again, it will never be so perfect.”