All the President’s Menus (26 page)

“Tibor showed up?”

He shook his head. “The gentleman who conveyed Mr. Tibor’s regrets was invited to remain for dinner in his stead.”

“But,” I sputtered, “but . . .”

“I discreetly inquired as to any dietary concerns you might need to be aware of, and you’ll be happy to know that our new guest has no food allergies or specialized requirements.”

“How did that come about?” I asked. “Who invited him to stay?”

“Apparently, when Cleto showed up to deliver Tibor’s regrets, the agents notified the president immediately. He, in turn, relayed the information to Ms. Freiberg. I believe it was she who made the request for Cleto to join them for dinner. Caused no small amount of commotion, as you might imagine,” he said. “Ms. Freiberg said she was sorry that Tibor wasn’t able to make it, but that she would be happy to have this gentleman take his place.”

At that moment, Gav showed up in the kitchen. The house manager, having delivered his message, disappeared.

“What’s going on?” I asked, aware of the apprehension in my voice. I welcomed Gav’s sturdy presence, even as I sought to make sense of recent changes. “How did this come about?”

He didn’t waste words. “The decision was made to invite Cleto to stay. I strongly advised against it, but the agent in charge overrode me. As you know, the Saardiscan candidate’s platform is one of inclusiveness, and she insisted. The secretary of state is eager to make nice with her, in the event that she’s elected. Cleto was wanded and searched before he was allowed in, so the president gave the okay.”

I didn’t like this last-minute change and I could tell that Gav didn’t, either.

Bucky stepped forward, keeping his voice low. “You’re not suggesting that Tibor skipped out because he’s planning to attack from the outside?” His gaze bounced from me to Gav and back again. “You don’t think he’s got a bomb, do you?”

Gav glared. Bucky backed away.

Drawing a deep breath, Gav calmed himself enough to address Bucky’s concerns. “No one will be able to get close enough to set or detonate a bomb. All agents have been provided Tibor’s description. No one will be allowed within the emergency perimeter we’ve established, and if Tibor attempts to cross it, he will be apprehended.”

“Did Cleto give you a reason for all this?” I asked.

Having fully adopted his agent demeanor, Gav gave a brusque nod. “Cleto told the president that Tibor is feeling unwell and is too fatigued to leave his hotel room.” He sent me a pointed look. “I’ve got to get back. I just wanted you to know what was going on. Keep your eyes and ears open. Let’s hope this is nothing.”

“Wait,” I said, catching Gav by the sleeve of his suit jacket. “Has anyone confirmed Tibor’s story?”

Another abbreviated nod. “Two agents from another team were dispatched to check on him. If he’s there, then we can probably stand down. If not . . .”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to.

“Okay,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

That got him to smile, however briefly. “I will.”

The three of us tended to work with a minimum of chatter. Tonight, however, we went far beyond mere quiet. Breathlessly silent, we spoke only when necessary, jumping at every incongruous noise, or the hint of raised voices coming from the front of the house. Most outbursts were accompanied by laughter or a jovial retort. Occasionally a guest would express good cheer by applauding. From time to time, Frosty barked.

My neck was sore from laboring to listen in, and I could tell the strain was taking its toll on my assistants, too.

“This is silly,” Cyan said in a whisper as we began plating the first course. “If there was going to be any trouble, don’t you think it would have happened by now?”

“I’m starting to wonder,” I said. “Not that there’s anything we can do.” To Bucky, I asked, “Did you let Marcel know that we’re beginning to serve?”

His brows jumped. “No,” he said. “Thanks for the reminder. I’ll do that now.” He crossed the room to the phone and picked it up.

The two butlers assigned to serve dinner arrived in the kitchen. The tuxedoed men offered no perfunctory greeting, no smile, nothing.

Bucky called over to me. “The phone to Marcel’s kitchen is busy, believe it or not.”

One of the somber butlers turned to me. “The phone in the cold kitchen has been acting up lately.”

Bucky overheard. “I’ll run down there,” he said. “Won’t take a minute.”

Cyan and I moved quickly, setting up each first-course plate to picture-perfect standards before handing it over to the waiting men. When I asked the butler nearest me how the party was progressing, he informed me that the guests had been seated. No embellishment, no detail. Had this been the White House, I would have been able to wrangle a tidbit or two out of our head butler and his staff.

When we’d finished arranging the final plate, the butler covered it and loaded it onto the serving cart. At the same moment, I glimpsed movement from down the long hallway opposite us. It was Bucky, emerging from the basement doorway. He hurried back into the kitchen, taking up a position to begin plating dinner’s second course.

As the butlers disappeared around the corner to the left—on their roundabout path to the dining room—I asked Bucky, “Everything okay with Marcel?”

“Fine,” he said. “He’s ready to go whenever we’re ready for him.”

*   *   *

Dinner progressed exactly as it had been designed to. When each course’s plates were returned to the kitchen, we inspected them to see how our offerings had been received. From the looks of the scraps left uneaten by the diners, tonight’s meal had been a rousing success.

The butlers returned to the dining room to clean off the table in preparation for serving dessert. Marcel and his assistant had sent up the poppy centerpieces and petits fours via dumbwaiter, moments ago. The two chefs arrived shortly thereafter and began arranging the masterpieces for presentation to the guests.

I stepped back from the central island to allow them to work more freely. Now, with the tough part behind me, I allowed myself a moment to relax, enjoy, and savor. Bucky and Cyan apparently had the same idea. They leaned against the far wall, chatting quietly.

Movement in the long hallway caught my eye again. The young woman in charge of Frosty made her way toward the center door on my right, her obvious goal to allow the pooch another outside visit during the lull between dinner and dessert. The agent positioned at the mouth of the hallway nodded acknowledgment as she pointed to the back door. I watched her disappear through.

I glanced over at Marcel and his assistant as they bent over their creations, heads together, speaking softly as they reverently positioned each petit four into place. When I turned back toward the long hallway, I was surprised to see Cleto.

The agent stationed at the mouth of the hallway straightened, having noticed the Saardiscan man, who’d just caught sight of me. Cleto waved hello. I waved back.

Cleto stepped through the bathroom door. The agent relaxed.

Moments later, the young woman returned with Frosty, the little dog pawing and prancing against the constraints of her leash. One second later, Cleto emerged from the washroom across the hall from her. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

The agent took note of both appearances, but did not abandon his post.

I watched as Cleto expressed delight at Frosty’s bouncing excitement. To my surprise, he crouched to greet the pup, vigorously rubbing her head and scratching behind her ears, cooing praise loud enough for me to hear.

This was a man who professed to hating dogs? Or was this elaborate display of affection meant to garner favor with Ms. Freiberg? Although the candidate wasn’t present to witness it personally, her assistant would no doubt convey how kind Cleto had been to little Frosty.

If that was his goal, Cleto was putting on quite a show. He continued to ruffle the dog’s white coat. He held himself awkwardly, leaning away as he reached. His lips were pressed tight. I remembered his comments about dogs being dirty, and I wondered if he was afraid of getting licked in the face.

Frosty sneezed, twice.

Cleto’s coos became ever more ardent and he kept his joyful attention on the dog. He was so effusive, so ceaseless in his devotion, that it got to the point where the young woman grew noticeably uncomfortable. Shifting her weight, she said something to Cleto, then tugged at the animal’s leash. Frosty was having none of it, however, clearly wanting to stay where the petting was good.

Finally, the woman insisted, convincing Frosty to follow her back into the dining room. Cleto rose to his feet, rubbing his hands together as he did so. Again, he caught me watching, but this time I didn’t wave. We locked eyes across the distance, and he gave a quick smile before disappearing back into the washroom.

I could have sworn I saw dust dissolve in his wake. A small glittering cloud that
poof
ed and vanished behind him like Tinkerbell’s sparkling trail.

At the same time, the chatter level increased in the kitchen. Bucky and Cyan heaped compliments while Marcel and his assistant feigned modesty.

Over the commotion of their conversation, Bucky called to me. “Take a look at the finished product before these are taken out, Ollie.”

Holding my hand up in a gesture to wait, I didn’t answer, didn’t turn to face the group. The Secret Service agent stationed in the corridor watched me with curiosity.

When Cleto stepped back into the hallway from the washroom, I called to him.

The Saardiscan man raised his hand in greeting, then began heading back toward the dining room.

“Do you have a moment?” I asked, a little louder.

He turned to face me with a quizzical smile, then started across the expanse between us. The Secret Service agent spoke to us both. “No guests allowed in the kitchen,” he said.

Cleto stopped mid-stride, raising his hands. Their palms were bright pink, as though chafed from being scrubbed too briskly. Or was I imagining things?

“Of course,” Cleto said.

I stepped past the agent into the long hallway.

“Exquisite dinner, Chef,” Cleto said. “I cannot even begin to express my deep admiration for your talent.” He closed his eyes as though experiencing ultimate bliss. When he opened his eyes again, he pressed his hands together and gave a slight bow. “It has been a pleasure getting to know you.”

“I’m worried about Tibor,” I said.

Though he tried to mask it, I didn’t miss the relief that washed over him. As though he’d been confused by my sudden interest in conversing and that my inquiry about Tibor had quelled some inner panic. “I will be sure to let him know of your concern.”

“After what happened with Kilian,” I said quietly, to make Cleto believe I was sharing a confidence, “I’m especially wary. Are you absolutely certain that Tibor is all right? Shouldn’t someone check on him? After all that’s happened, I’m tempted to suggest that.”

“Not necessary,” Cleto said. He glanced around the hallway before bringing his lips close to my ears. “I did not want to say this to Ms. Freiberg, because to do so would hurt her feelings. The truth is that Tibor refused to attend tonight’s banquet.”

“Oh?” I said noncommittally.

With a moue of distaste, Cleto went on, “You know Tibor well enough to understand. He made no secret of his plan to avoid attending.”

That wasn’t exactly accurate, but I let him go on.

Continuing to whisper, he said, “Tibor does not know how to control his anger. We have seen this ourselves. He is angry and spiteful and, because of that, has chosen to turn his back on this invitation.”

The agent behind me said, “The staff wants me to tell you that dessert is ready to be served,” he said. “All guests should return to the table.”

Cleto bid me good night. I turned and headed back, not bothering to stop in the kitchen to explain. I gave the Secret Service agent in the hall the most minuscule of updates. “I need to speak with Special Agent Gavin,” I said. “Right now.”

Whether he knew that Gav and I were married, or simply knew that as a member of the White House staff I was allowed a measure of freedom, he didn’t stop me.

Happy not to have to fight a battle on that front, I raced around the other way, toward the front of the house. I slowed as I encountered the butlers wheeling Marcel’s gorgeous poppy centerpieces and delectable petits fours. The men and their tray blocked my path, but I decided there was enough clearance to get by. Ignoring their curious glances, I edged past to find myself in what I recognized from its warm vanilla walls and peach furnishings as the Blair Front Drawing Room.

I didn’t have time to admire the architecture, paintings, or even consider the room’s historic significance. My goal was to get as close as possible to the dinner party while remaining out of sight. From what I recalled of the floor plan, I still had a handful of areas to traverse before I’d even get a glimpse of the guests. Gav, I knew, would be in the room adjacent to that of the diners.

The agent stationed in the Drawing Room was a fellow I’d met before but didn’t know personally. He held an arm out, blocking my way. “I need to see Special Agent Gavin,” I said. “Immediately.”

The wheels of the rolling cart gently vibrated the floor as the butlers pulled up behind me.

“So I understand.” The agent narrowed his eyes. “Why do you need him?”

Yeah, in ten words or less, right?

One of the butlers cleared his throat. “May we get by?”

I twisted to face them. “No.” Thinking fast, I amended, “I mean yes. I intend to accompany you.”

“Into the dining room?” the nearer butler asked.

The agent on duty rumbled his displeasure. “That is not part of the program,” he said. “I can’t allow it.” When he spoke into his microphone, I assumed he was connecting with Gav. Good.

A brilliant thought came to mind. “I’ve been requested to visit the table. By the host.”

“I thought you said you needed to see Special Agent Gavin.”

“That’s right,” I said, building on my charade. The lies were piling up. “He’s the one who is supposed to escort me in.”

The agent spoke quietly into his radio again, then listened to a reply. “I’ll take you in.”

Gritting my teeth, I politely thanked him.

I hurried through the rooms pressing ahead, moving as quickly as I could. This house was huge, and even though I remembered the basics of the floor plan, it was like traveling through a maze. In essence we would be making a giant jagged
U
in our path to the dining room.

“No, the other way,” one butler whispered when I took a left that should have been a right. I was suddenly grateful for my Secret Service escort. His presence—and the fact that he’d notified them that I was coming—prevented me from having to repeat my story to all the other agents along the way. Each one expressed identical, subtle, looks of surprise, but made no move to impede our progress.

“Next right,” the butler behind me whispered.

I took the turn as instructed, ready to spill my suspicions to Gav.

He wasn’t there.

Two other agents, both of whom I’d met before, flanked the doorway to the dining room from where we could hear the sounds of cheerful conversation. The sentry agents waved me to one side, probably to keep me out of the diners’ line of sight.

I walked up to the agent nearer to me, avoiding being seen. “Where’s Ga—Special Agent Gavin?”

“Sent away.” His words were clipped, quiet. I got the feeling this guy was the team leader.

“Why?” I asked.

“I am not at liberty to say.”

While the butlers sailed in and out of the dining room with the cups, saucers, dessert plates, and silverware needed to properly showcase dessert, two agents discussed the situation. I shifted from foot to foot, clenching and unclenching my fists with growing impatience. I’d been counting on Gav’s support to make this work. Now what?

“Gavin didn’t leave word . . .” one said.

“He had more on his mind,” the other answered.

“Listen,” I said, making it up on the fly, “I made dinner. When a chef is invited to visit the table, it’s because the guests want to offer their appreciation for an exceptional meal.” The meal
was
exceptional, but I still felt like a conceited fool making the point right now, especially as part of this total fabrication. “If I wait until after dessert is served, the guests will mistakenly believe I was responsible for creating these.” I held my hand out toward the vivid orange poppies and accompanying treats. “That puts the president in the uncomfortable position of having to clarify who made what and it will result in confusion for everyone. Not a happy moment.”