“Hmm,” Sean said, beginning to work the shrimp again. “Maybe you could put a drug in the food that makes everybody tired. Then we’d all just have a great meal and go home and sleep. No business talk.”
He laughed. I didn’t think it was funny. Above all, the food that came out of my kitchen had to be safe. That wasn’t something I ever joked about.
Sean must have sensed my displeasure because he sobered at once. “Listen, Ollie, I just have to tell you, I have a bad feeling about all this. The stakes are high. Aunt Elaine doesn’t realize how desperate Volkov may be. I’d hate to see her get taken.”
I put my hand on his, belatedly realizing that was probably a mistake. “Mrs. Campbell’s a smart lady. She’s strong. I’m sure she won’t give in if she really doesn’t want to.”
Sean had just begun to answer when Peter Everett Sargeant III strode in, one eyebrow cocked at us. “Well, well,” he said. “I see we’ve got a whole slew of new recruits.”
Leave it to Sargeant to pop in at the exact wrong time. I sighed, reconsidering. Lately, with all the trouble and with two major events still behind schedule, was there ever a good time?
“Hello, Mr. Baxter,” Sargeant said. Sean was the only person in the room he directly acknowledged. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“Same here.” Sean glanced from Sargeant to me. “Guess I ought to be going, huh?” He shot his last shrimp a distasteful look and gave me a sideways smile. “I think I’ll stick to the turkey tomorrow,” he said. “See you then, Ollie.”
When he left I washed my hands and wiped them dry. “Peter,” I said. Ever since taking on the role of executive chef, I had the privilege-if one could call it that-of addressing our sensitivity director by his first name. “What can I do for you?”
“What was Sean Baxter doing down here?”
I no longer had to answer to Sargeant. Gave me a good feeling, deep down. “Something you need, Peter?” I asked again.
He pulled out a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Friday’s luncheon,” he began. “I took the liberty of reviewing the guest list and I want to ensure you’ve provided for all the different religious and dietary issues we’ll be facing.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. “We’ve got it covered.”
“But I haven’t had a chance to oversee the actual food preparation-”
“And you won’t,” I said, guiding him back toward the doorway. “I sent a copy of our complete menu to your office. If you chanced to read it, you’d see that everything has been handled with our usual aplomb.”
I couldn’t resist a tiny bit of bravado. We’d worked hard to come up with the perfect menu, with choices that would not only please a multitude of palates, but offer varieties to keep kosher, vegan, halaal, low-fat, low-carb, and non-dairy, among other things. To say this buffet had been one of my greatest challenges yet would be understatement. But everyone in the kitchen knew our guests would talk to the press afterward. We wanted-and expected-nothing short of a glowing account.
Sargeant was shaking his head. “I didn’t read it yet. I would much prefer it if you walk me through-”
“And I much prefer to maximize the little time we have to get our meals together. So, Peter,” I said, relishing the use of his first name again, “I have to ask you to allow us to do our jobs and to come back some other time. Preferably after the new year.”
Blinking, he squared his shoulders and left without another word.
Bucky slapped his hands together in slow-motion applause. “Good job, kid. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
CHAPTER 8
ON THURSDAY, WITH LESS THAN AN HOUR TO go before Thanksgiving guests were due, food was flying. Not literally, of course. But we were all moving so fast that everything seemed a tiny bit blurred. Though there were only nine for dinner today, there were still dozens of last-minute details to attend to. We concentrated hard and talked very little.
I glanced at the clock. Just past noon. Mingled scents of roasting meat-the turkey breasts in the far oven, and the Virginia ham resting on the counter behind me-gave me enormous comfort. We were on time. Despite the fact that we left nothing to chance, I always panicked about the turkey; in my opinion, there was nothing worse than dried-out fowl. As I poured onion gravy from a pan into a temporary tureenlike container, I shot a glance at the oven door. “Bucky,” I called over my shoulder, “can you-”
“I just checked on them,” he answered, reading my mind. “They’re perfect. Nicely brown. Right on schedule.”
“Thanks.”
Agda was in charge of putting the finishing touches on each course. Every plate was arranged with exquisite precision just before it left our kitchen. At the White House, food did not simply sit on a dish-our meals required presentation. With her speed and accuracy, Agda was a natural to handle that job. Even though today’s dinner would be served in a traditional, family-style manner, the trays and platters required her full attention before they were sent to the table.
Bent over the first tray of hors d’oeuvres, Agda was carefully placing fruits and cheeses in meticulous formation, interspersing crackers and spiced nuts to make for a beautifully appetizing display.
I glanced up when our head butler, Jackson, came in. He’d recently taken over the position, though he’d been on staff for many years. A tall black man with curly salt-and-pepper hair, he smiled often and could always be counted on for White House scoop. Right now, however, he wasn’t smiling.
“The president is not returning to the White House until this evening,” he said.
All activity stopped. “What?” I asked.
Jackson shook his head. “A change in plans.”
Before inquiring as to what great world event prevented the president from attending his family’s Thanksgiving dinner, I needed to know the truly crucial information. “Are we still serving?”
“We are,” Jackson said, still not looking happy. “Sad day for the missus. She was counting on her husband’s support with these guests.” He met my gaze. “You have heard some stories?”
I had, and I remembered Sean Baxter’s warnings. “This isn’t going to be a friendly social dinner after all, is it?”
Jackson shook his head again. “I am concerned. But there is nothing we can do.”
“Except feed them well and keep them happy,” I said, “and hope that they’re all so impressed with dinner that they forget about business.”
The corner of Jackson ’s mouth curled up. “We can try. I will return when the guests arrive.” Looking around the area, he asked, “Have you seen Yi-im?”
One of the newer butlers, a tiny gentleman of an Asian descent I couldn’t deduce, Yi-im never seemed to be available when there was work to be done. It had taken me a while to get the hang of pronouncing his name: Yee-eem. I pointed downward. “He said something about heading to the cafeteria.”
Anger sparked Jackson ’s eyes. “Lazy man.”
“WE ARE READY,” MARCEL SAID, AS HE CAME around the corner, wheeling a cart. The top shelf held a tall pumpkin trifle and a selection of four different varieties of minitartlets: pecan, orange chiffon, lemon cheese, and Boston cream. The cart’s second shelf held Marcel’s famous apple cobbler with oatmeal crumble.
“Do you need me to heat that up when the time comes?” I asked.
His dark face folded into worry lines-he hadn’t even heard my question. “I hope I ’ave made enough.”
I started to assure him that there was enough dessert to satisfy twenty hungry guests when he turned and beckoned someone behind. The missing Yi-im stepped into the kitchen carrying a large silver tray almost as big as he was. Just over forty, the junior butler was slim and so short that in his tuxedo he might have passed for a ring-bearer in a wedding. Except for his bald head, which he kept shaved and shiny enough to reflect lights.