He jumped into my awkward silence. “Has anyone else seen this?”
“Cyan.”
“She’s the little redhead?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
Gav seemed to weigh that information. “Probably best if you keep this to yourself. Can you trust Cyan?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then tell her to keep mum, too.”
“What will you do with the note?” I asked.
“Make copies. Show them to the officers in charge. I’ll get one to the First Lady as well.”
Any uneasiness I’d felt about sharing the letter with Gav had dissipated. My mood lightened. “Thanks,” I said.
“When I say to keep this to yourself, I really mean that.”
“I know.”
He stole a look to the right and then to the left. The only other humans in the room were two maintenance men, who were wiping down the far countertop. “Ollie,” he said, leaning forward, “if Sean was murdered-and I’m not saying he was…”
“I know.”
“Then whoever killed him won’t want this information out there.”
I thought about how similar Gav’s warnings were to Cyan’s. “I understand.”
He tapped his breast pocket. “But this gives us a place to start looking for suspects.”
CHAPTER 18
I MADE MY WAY TO THE FIRST FLOOR TO TAKE a look at the decorating in progress. Most days of the year we had crowds wandering through the White House to tour the public rooms. But today and tomorrow would be quiet now that the Decorator Tour had been canceled. I wanted to steal a selfish minute to breathe in the beauty of the holiday before things got crazy again tomorrow. I wandered through the Entrance Hall and, as always, appreciated its grandeur. While the White House was permanently a show-place and forever gorgeous, this time of year the mansion sparkled with holiday spirit.
I crossed the plaque in the floor that commemorated the White House’s original construction and all the renovations that had taken place since-1792, 1817, 1902, 1952-and found it curious that most of the construction occurred in years ending in two. The building’s most recent renovation, during Truman’s tenure, had been so comprehensive that I couldn’t imagine another one occurring in my lifetime.
Just ahead, Mrs. Campbell stood in the Blue Room, her back to me. She watched as one of Kendra’s teams put the finishing touches on the tree. Hundreds of gingerbread men decorated the branches, peeking out from behind the white poinsettia blooms that sharpened the Fraser fir’s intense green.
All the president’s gingerbread men, I thought.
I wondered what the First Lady was thinking about right this minute. With all the beauty and cheer going on around her, it had to be difficult to face this happy time of year knowing Sean would not be here to celebrate. Not wishing to disturb her, I walked very softly to the adjacent Red Room.
One of the White House state reception rooms, the Red Room was always impressive, but decorated as it was today, with lighted garland surrounding the fireplace, handmade gingerbread men in every possible corner, and wreaths hanging in the tall windows, it was breathtaking. In prior years, the gingerbread house was showcased in the State Dining Room, but Mrs. Campbell had requested the change. This year, we had originally intended to use the State Dining Room for the very large, very busy reception following the Decorator Tour this afternoon. Now those plans had changed, too.
I scratched my forehead, assessing this last-minute rearrangement. The reception, rescheduled for Tuesday, including both days’ invitees, would be larger in scale than anyone had anticipated. Maybe it was a good thing the house was set up in the Red Room after all. But I did find myself curious about all the power outages. Could it be that the Red Room wasn’t electrically equipped to handle everything? Was that why we were having so much trouble?
The gingerbread house sat between the room’s windows. Their swooping gold draperies, topped with fringed red swags, framed Marcel’s creation to perfection. I sighed. Despite all the crazed goings-on these past few days, the comfort of this room filled me with a warm sense of contentment.
Opposite the wall with the fireplace, the waitstaff had set up a champagne fountain. Dry now, it would be primed and ready to go before the reception on Tuesday. Two of our butlers would flank it, serving directly from the cascading fountain, so that none of our guests would get his or her fingers sticky.
Everything sparkled, looking warm and wonderful. Standing by the fireplace, I ran a finger along the edges of some of the gingerbread men turned in by our nation’s kids. These simple, homemade decorations added just the right touch.
I wandered into the State Dining Room. Decorated trees in the room’s corners were heavy with dazzling white and silver decorations. Matching ribboned arrangements hung from the wall sconces and draped the fireplace. A long table ran down the middle of the room, topped with complementary centerpieces. And everywhere I looked-on the trees, the walls, hanging from sconces-were more gingerbread men. Kendra was on her knees in the room’s far corner, strategically arranging two more little men on the lowest branches of a tree.
“This is gorgeous,” I said.
She turned, her flushed face breaking out into a huge smile. “It does look good, doesn’t it?”
“That’s an understatement.” Standing near her, I turned, slowly, in order to take in the whole display. To just appreciate the beauty of it all.
“I’m relieved to have the extra time,” Kendra said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “We would have had everything done by noon if we needed to.” She glanced at her watch, then grimaced. “But I’m happy for the breather. Gives me the chance to do a little extra.”
“This theme is fabulous,” I said, stepping close to the east wall and touching one of the gingerbread men’s arms. “It gives the White House such a cozy feeling.”
“This is a first for me. I didn’t know how hard it would be to sort through submissions from all over the country.” Her eyes widened and her voice lowered. “It was a nightmare,” she said. “Which is why we’re running later this year than I expected. There’s so much more involved with accepting decorations for the White House from people. Everybody has to be checked out thoroughly before we even think about using their pieces.” She took a slow look around the room, a satisfied smile on her face. “But it was sure worth it.”
“Did you turn anyone down?”
She wrinkled her nose. “A few. Some arrived broken, some didn’t follow directions and sent gingerbread men that were the wrong size, or the wrong shape. Part of what makes an overall design work is consistency in the right places.” She shot me a conspiratorial grin. “Of course, we don’t tell people that their kids’ artwork has been relegated to the basement cafeteria. We just send them the official thank-you letter and let them know their efforts are appreciated. They’ll never know.”
“Speaking of gingerbread men,” I said, “I gave Marcel some from the Blanchard kids. I didn’t see them in the Red Room like Senator Blanchard requested.”
Kendra’s eyebrows raised. “Preferential treatment?”
“You know it.” I ticked my fingers. “One, he’s a senator. Two, he’s a special friend of the First Lady’s, and three… the decorations are really well-done.”
A skeptical look. “From Blanchard’s kids?”
I winked as I started back to the Red Room. “Rumor has it the Blanchard chef put them together.”
She shook her head. “Why am I not surprised?”
Back in the Red Room, I happened upon Yi-im, who was touching up the house with a cup of powdered sugar and a tiny paintbrush. “Did the house survive the move all right?” I asked.