Nick Volkov cleared his throat. “He’s irresponsible, if you ask me.”
I slid around fast enough to catch Mrs. Campbell’s tight smile. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t ask you, then, isn’t it?” she said. With a pleasant nod to Mrs. Volkov, Mrs. Campbell excused herself to mingle with the other guests.
Call me Nosy Rosie, but I couldn’t let it go. I continued to watch the interactions in the next room, listening closely to as many conversations as I could. The only people I knew who had the First Lady’s interests at heart were the president and Sean. I hoped to overhear some tidbits of information that I could pass along to Sean later. Again, I wondered where he was. After our conversation yesterday in the kitchen, I couldn’t imagine he would have forgotten the time. But things happen, and I decided that until he showed up, I was on spy duty.
Nick Volkov muttered under his breath. I didn’t catch his words, but I couldn’t miss the grimace he made behind the First Lady’s back. Helen Hendrickson didn’t miss it either. Practically sprinting away from Treyton Blanchard’s side, she hurried over to join the Volkovs. Helen Hendrickson was not a small woman, nor a young one. The quick movement left her breathless. “Did she say she’ll sign?” she asked.
“Hardly,” Nick answered. “She’s unwilling to even entertain conversation until that damn Baxter arrives.” Turning to his wife, he said something else I couldn’t catch. She broke away from him to intercept Fitzgerald, who’d been heading toward them. Mrs. Volkov looped an arm through his and led him away toward the room’s fireplace.
Helen Hendrickson chewed her thumbnail before addressing Volkov. “What can we do?”
Cyan came around the corner from the pantry. I walked over to meet her. “Still no news on Sean,” I said, keeping my voice low. Looking at my watch, I added, “Not too much longer before we serve.”
“I hate this tension,” she said. “Can’t do anything but wait and be nervous. Everything’s ready now.”
“I know, but we’ve been through worse,” I said.
She glanced at the open door where I’d been standing. “Anything interesting?”
“So-so.”
By the time Cyan returned to the pantry and I made it back to my unobtrusive position at the doorway, Treyton Blanchard had joined Nick Volkov and Helen Hendrickson. It was neat to be part of the wallpaper-seen but not noticed.
“What good gossip am I missing here?” Blanchard asked. The junior senator from Maryland had a pleasant face, but his natural charisma and wide smile made him seem even more handsome in person than he appeared on camera. “I hope you two haven’t been talking about me.”
Volkov made a noise. Frustration, it seemed. “We’ve been talking about our… partner.” The way he said it made my skin crawl.
“Give it time,” Blanchard said.
“Time?” Again, Volkov grew red-faced. “We don’t have that luxury.”
Blanchard took a small sip of his wine. “We have time enough,” he said. “Elaine can’t be forced to make a decision without consulting her trusted advisers, can she?”
Volkov sputtered, “Some trusted adviser. That Baxter fellow can’t even make it to dinner on time. How can we expect him to help her make the right decisions?”
“I’ll talk with Elaine one-on-one when I get the chance,” Blanchard said. “I think she’s just overwhelmed right now. She’s still grieving for her father…”
“Her father’s death is what precipitated this decision.”
Blanchard held his wineglass to almost eye level, gesturing with it for emphasis. “Don’t tell me things I already know, Nick. I understand what’s at stake here. But today is Thanksgiving.” He tempered his admonishment with a smile. “Or have you forgotten that?”
From the ping-pong movement of her head as the conversation went back and forth, Helen Hendrickson seemed unwilling-or too mousy-to join in. I was surprised when she focused her attention on Blanchard. “Easy for you,” she said. “Nick and I don’t have the benefit of political donations to help us make our dreams come true.”
Blanchard replied, but I missed it because Jackson was on the move. As he passed me, he whispered, “Showtime.”
I followed. “Sean Baxter?” I asked.
He spoke over his shoulder. “Not yet.”
Within minutes, the guests were seated and we were ready to serve. I had Cyan in the narrow pantry with me and we scrutinized every dish to make certain it was absolutely perfect before one of our tuxedoed butlers carried it into the next room. I heard exclamations of delight as the platters reached the table, and I blew out a breath of relief.
When the door connecting the pantry to the Family Dining Room was open, I snuck a glance. With the president unavailable, the First Lady had taken her seat at the head of the table. Treyton Blanchard sat to her right, Bindy Gerhardt across from him. The Volkovs sat across from each other, too, with Nick next to Bindy. The male-female pattern continued with Helen Hendrickson next to Nick. Helen’s guest, the elderly Mr. Fitzgerald, had settled himself across from her. Only the seat across from the First Lady was unoccupied.
As he passed me on his way back into the pantry, Jackson said, “We will seat Mr. Baxter when he arrives.” A shrug. “If he arrives at all.”
Cyan came close, whispering, “Do you think maybe Sean is with the president? I mean, that’s his uncle. Maybe whatever’s keeping President Campbell is-”
I shushed her. The other room had silenced. No conversation. No movement. Rather than push the connecting door open to peek, I hurried around into the State Dining Room where I could peer in unnoticed. I wondered if something was wrong with the meal. What could possibly have happened to stop everything so completely? I strained to hear, and was rewarded only by the flat-toned words from a voice I didn’t recognize.
In a moment, I understood. Two Secret Service agents had positioned themselves inside the Family Dining Room. One of them had apparently requested Mrs. Campbell’s presence away from her guests. I slowed to a stroll as I made my way across the expansive room, hoping I appeared nonchalant. Pretending I was heading into the hall.
Mrs. Campbell emerged just as I crossed her path. She’d been about to address the taller of the two agents, but stopped me with a hand to my arm. “Ollie,” she said, “dinner is wonderful. I-”
“Mrs. Campbell,” the agent said. He touched her elbow in an effort to guide her toward the doorway to the Red Room. “Please.”
She didn’t move. “What happened?”
Both agents glared at me, making me want to shrink and run, but the First Lady gripped my arm, effectively freezing me in place.
She blinked rapidly, then took a steadying breath. “Is it my husband?”
“No,” the shorter agent said quickly. “The president is safe.”
“Thank God.” Her grasp loosened, but she didn’t completely let go. “Then what is it?” she asked the agents.
The taller one cleared his throat. “Ma’am, perhaps it would be better for you to come with us to the residence.”
“No.” Mrs. Campbell’s jaw flexed. “Just… tell… me.”
The agents exchanged glances.
She gripped me again. “Agent Teska, if you don’t tell me what’s going on-”
The thought hung there a long moment.
“With the president tied up in negotiations… we thought it best to talk to you first.” The urgency in his face settled into the dispassionate expression that always heralds bad news. We waited. I barely breathed.
“There’s been an incident,” Teska finally said. “Please, ma’am. If you’ll come with me…”
Her face was tight. Her voice even tighter. “Just tell me.”
“It’s Sean Baxter, ma’am. He’s dead.”
CHAPTER 9
THE FIRST LADY MANAGED TO FIND HER WAY back to her chair in the dining room, waving away those of us trying to help her. She sat for a long time, eyes covered, head down.