The general public-those who had the foresight to prearrange a visit-and congressional leaders and their families were all due here to vie for photo-ops at the opening ceremony. The event today was supposed to have been for the local press and other highfalutin magazines. Dubbed the Decorator Tour, the Sunday event traditionally gave the world a sneak peek at the year’s White House extravaganza.
“I can’t even begin to worry about it,” I said. “Since the decorators are coming Tuesday now, too, we’ll just have to add what we can from today’s menu to what we have planned. We’ll be fine.”
I kept my tone light, but I was concerned nonetheless. Today had been the day I agonized over because of food preparations, but I was also preoccupied with safety concerns. Last night Tom and I had discussed how today, Sunday, had been the bomb’s target day. We agreed that if the Secret Service believed a threat still remained, they would have canceled today’s event.
Now suddenly it was canceled.
I swallowed before continuing, rationalizing that if there were any real threat, we would have been evacuated by now. With the president out of town and the White House closed to outsiders, the likelihood of an attempt was cheerfully slim. The same held for Tuesday, when the First Lady would open the White House to the public-the president was scheduled for a trip to Berlin. No president meant no bomb.
That gave me comfort. And to be honest, I was happy for the recent change of plan. In fact, I was feeling better than I had in a very long time. President Campbell was safe for now. And the next possible chaotic situation-Tuesday’s opening-would happen without him in town. That should buy us some safety.
Fingering the note in my pocket, I realized that things were not completely perfect. The note from Sean convinced me that those in authority needed to look more closely into the manner of his death. But who could I talk to? Tom would have been my first choice, but he was away and wholly incommunicado until Wednesday.
As if reading my mind, Cyan wandered over and spoke in a low voice. “That document Sean left you,” she said. “Are you going to do anything about it?”
“Did you read it?”
When she flushed, I had my answer. “It doesn’t sound like it was written by someone about to commit suicide,” she said.
“I didn’t think so either.”
Inching closer, she whispered. “You always seem to get in the middle of things, Ollie.” When I reacted, she was quick to add, “That is, things seem to happen to you-around you. All the time.”
She was starting to sound a lot like Gav.
“I can’t help that,” I said.
Keeping her voice low, she said, “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just that I know you well enough to know that you’re probably trying to figure out what happened to Sean all by yourself.”
I shook my head, but Cyan wasn’t finished.
“All I’m saying is to be careful.”
“I am being careful.”
She gave me a wry frown. “I know you don’t believe Sean killed himself, but if he didn’t… well, that means somebody else killed him. If you’re trying to investigate this, and you’ve got a note like that”-she nodded toward my pocket-“you could be asking for trouble.”
“I’m not trying to investigate.”
Her look said she didn’t believe me. “You’re always poking around, Ollie. We both know that.” Her wide-swept glance took in the rest of the kitchen. “We all know that.”
Bucky, Rafe, and Agda were beginning to shoot curious looks our way. It wasn’t often two people held a private, whispered conversation in front of the giant mixer. I grabbed Cyan’s elbow. “I swear, I’m not touching this one.” I gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t even know where Sean lived. And so far, there hasn’t been anything I can do to help anyone in this investigation, even if I wanted to.” My hand curled around the note in my pocket and I pulled it up high enough for Cyan to see a corner of it. “Well, at least not until now, that is.”
She gave a resigned nod. “Just be careful, okay?”
I WOULD HAVE PREFERRED TO TALK TO AGENTS Teska or Berland, who’d been with Mrs. Campbell when she first received news of Sean’s death, but they were again with the First Lady-wherever she was right now. I could have talked with any of the other agents assigned to the White House, but that would have involved explaining the whole story to them. No, I needed to talk with a person in the know, with the authority to get things done.
I found him downstairs in the cafeteria, alone, reading papers out of a manila folder, arms resting on the tabletop, fingers wrapped around the handle of a steaming mug. He wore gold half-moon reading glasses perched at the very end of his nose. The place was quiet, but at this time of day, and at this time of year, it wasn’t surprising. No one had time for coffee breaks. Well, hardly anyone.
“Do you have a minute, Gav?”
His gaze and eyebrows arched over the tops of his glasses, and his mouth tugged down. Dressed as always in a suit and tie, he looked totally at ease, which is more than I was at the moment.
“What can I do for you, Ollie?” he asked, holding a palm out toward the chair next to his.
I sat. Then pushed a hard breath out.
“Feeling the effects of yesterday’s scare?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, rubbing my upper arms. “But that’s not what’s bothering me this time.”
He sat back, removed the glasses, and placed them on the table next to the mug. “Talk to me.”
I dragged the note out and spread it before him on the small table. He was fully versed in the Sean situation, so there wasn’t much to explain before he read it. “I found this on my kitchen computer,” I said. “Sean Baxter left it for me.”
Gav leaned both arms on the table and held the paper far from his face. One second later, he pulled the glasses back on and started skimming.
I added, “He wrote this the day before he died.”
Gav looked up. For the first time, I noticed his eyes. Pale gray. “And you’re bringing this to me because…?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Gav continued to read. I waited.
“You believe this is proof he didn’t commit suicide?”
I nodded.
“I’d have to agree the wording doesn’t sound like it came from someone depressed enough to take his own life.”
“Can you show that to someone? Would you be able to get that into the proper hands?”
Gav sucked on his lower lip for a moment before answering. He stared at the page, rereading. “This is on your computer in the kitchen?”
I nodded again. “I almost didn’t notice it. He’d opened it under an obscure heading.”
“Obscure,” Gav repeated. “But you found it.”
“It seemed out of place.”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “Just like I told you. You have an eye for things.”
That was all nice and complimentary, but I wanted to be sure this paper did some good. “Can you get it into the proper hands?” I repeated.
He folded it into fourths and placed it into his shirt pocket. “Can anyone else access this letter?”
“Sure,” I said. “But no one else will.” I thought about Cyan and amended, “Hardly anyone. The kitchen staff only accesses recipes and other necessary documents. I handle the administrative issues. This is under my set of documents.”
“Is it password-protected?”
“No, but there’s no reason-”
“Ollie, what did I tell you about trusting people?”
“No one in the kitchen-”
He held a hand up. “Even if you’re right and no one in the kitchen means anyone any harm, how do you know that individuals from other departments aren’t accessing your files?”
I opened my mouth to argue, but realized I had nothing to say. Although I was savvy enough to manipulate recipes, files, and spreadsheets, I knew nothing about firewalls or security stuff like that. That wasn’t my area of expertise. Now that I thought about it, however, I supposed it could be possible for others to access my files when I wasn’t looking-either in person, or through the quirks of cyberspace.