Home of the Braised (8 page)

“Think harder, Ms. Paras.”

I jerked backward at the malevolence in his tone.

“Did any of them speak to you?” he asked.

“Are you joking?” Irritation made my voice rise. “They were dead. Or don’t you remember what happened there?”

“You did not state unequivocally that all the victims were deceased when you arrived. You said you didn’t ‘think’ any were still alive. I’m asking you if you’re withholding information from me. Who spoke to you and what did he say?”

Invasion of my personal space or no, I pushed to my feet, going chin to chest with Tyree. He took an instinctive step back. Good.

I shook my toque in the man’s face. “Don’t you get it? We were there less than a minute before you arrived. No one spoke. They couldn’t.” I repeated myself, this time more slowly. “They were bound and gagged. And oh, yeah, dead.”

“A minute is a long time,” he said. “A dying man could have a lot to say in that amount of time.” His nostrils flared, and he opened his mouth to continue.

I couldn’t help myself, I cut him off even though I knew my next words would cause trouble. “Exactly what were
you
doing there, Agent Tyree?” I turned to the other man, Larsen. “I assume that was you under one of the other gas masks. How did you know to protect yourselves, hmm?”

The moment I’d gotten to my feet, Larsen had shot back to stand by his partner’s side. An oddly protective move. Like there was any chance I could hurt either one of these toughies.

Tyree’s voice was a growl. “You be careful, Ms. Paras,” he said. And in a very ominous, un-Secret Service–like gesture, he pointed two fingers toward his eyes, then turned them toward me. “We will be watching you.”

“WHAT’S WRONG?” CYAN ASKED WHEN I
returned to the kitchen. “Was Sargeant’s first order of business in his new job to toss you overboard?” Her tone was light, but as she drew closer, her voice lowered. “Seriously, what happened at the press conference? You look furious. And you were gone a long time.”

“I am furious, but it has nothing to do with the press conference.” Flexing my fingers, I rested a hip against the stainless steel island at the center of the room. Virgil had his back to me, working at the stove. “Where’s Bucky?”

She flipped a hand toward the refrigeration area. “Taking inventory. Where have you been? I mean, really? Sargeant’s been back for a while. He called down here to leave a message for you.”

I couldn’t answer her question about where I’d been, so I deflected. “What did he want?”

“To set up a meeting with you. One-on-one, he said.” Her eyes clouded. “Uh-oh. What’s going on?”

I needed to blow off steam. Usually, the best way to do that was to throw myself into work, but right now that option wasn’t going to cut it. “What time is Josh due down here?”

“You’re not answering my questions.”

I pointed at her. “Astute observation.” It was a lame attempt to keep the moment light. Failed.

She fisted one hip and studied me. “Josh is supposed to join us in about an hour. You know how he’s intent on helping with the state dinner? Well, he wants to be in on the planning as well as the execution. Why do you ask?”

“I’ll be back,” I said, still not answering her directly. Slamming my toque onto the workspace, I left the kitchen, taking a right into the refrigeration area, a left into the basement hall, and a final left through the double doors that led into the ground-level outdoor courtyard that wrapped around the northwest corner of the kitchen.

Once freed from the constraints of having to watch my every word, I drew in a deep breath of the hot, sunny air and expelled it, hard. “What is going on, Gav?” I asked aloud. “Why can’t I reach you?”

Fortunately for me, the president was off the premises at the moment, which meant that a good portion of the Secret Service detail was away, too. Sure, there were plenty of agents guarding the First Family, and we had our ever-present snipers on the roof, but I didn’t feel swarmed and claustrophobic out here the way I sometimes did in the White House.

Being out in the fresh air by myself didn’t do much to abate my anxiety level where Gav was concerned. Tyree’s presence had upped the stakes. All I could imagine was that something—some unknown thing—was very wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it because I didn’t know what was going on behind the scenes. Not knowing was often worse than the truth. I desperately wanted to know what was happening.

All I knew for certain was that Gav would have contacted me if he could have. In frustration, I clasped my hands behind my head and stared at the sky.
Get a grip, Ollie,
I told myself
.
You’ve been through worse.

I needed to focus on something other than Gav. Worrying about him—though it came naturally, and far too easily—was counterproductive and a worthless endeavor. Logically, I knew that my worrying wouldn’t keep him safe. Emotionally, I needed to make myself believe it.

My team depended on me to stay strong. The president depended on me to feed his important guests. The president’s son, Josh, who also happened to be my number one student, depended on me for guidance. I didn’t have time to waste here. I couldn’t give in to the luxury of worry.

And yet, as the sun warmed my bare arms, I allowed myself this moment to let it all out.

“What now?” I asked, knowing that the answer needed to come from within.

And it did. Simply put, I couldn’t let my team down. I couldn’t let Josh down. I most definitely couldn’t deliver anything less than my best effort where this upcoming state dinner was concerned. The president of Durasi visiting the White House could make all the difference to peace between our nations. I had to do all I could to make sure my portion of it went well.

That meant I needed to focus.

I paced and circled the courtyard three times. The air, the sun, and the ability to move did me good, exactly in the way I’d hoped. A nun I’d had in high school once advised us that if we were taxed mentally, we should get out and do something physical to reclaim our energy. Similarly, she told us that if we were taxed physically, we should resort to mental exercises to restore ourselves. That advice had always served me well.

Thus refreshed, I headed back inside, ready to take charge again, to keep my kitchen moving forward. This was my job. This was what I did best. In trying times like these, I needed to remind myself of that as well.

I found Sargeant at his desk. What surprised me more than the sight of his head bent over papers he was studying, was the fact that this scene seemed perfectly natural to me. Paul had been the chief usher for years and I’d grown to love the man. Doug Lambert—despite his protestations to the contrary—had never been able to handle the demands of the job and I’d been uncomfortable seeing him in the role.

I was too savvy to fool myself into believing that Sargeant and I would never experience any turbulence in the future, but having him in charge of the entire residence filled me more with relief than dread.

I knocked at the jamb. “Peter?”

His head came up and he peeled frameless spectacles from his face.

“Are you in trouble again?” he asked.

I didn’t wait for him to invite me to sit. I simply took the chair across from him. “Maybe. At this point, however . . .”

He waved his reading glasses in the air, wearily brushing away my words. “I know. You can’t tell me. I trust that when you’re able to, you will bring me up to speed?”

He phrased it as a question, but his gaze was sharp, his mouth downturned like a marionette’s.

I gave a quick nod. “That’s about the size of it.” Focusing on my reason for seeking him out, I switched subjects. “You wanted to talk about the kitchen’s reporting structure?”

Folding his arms across the desk, he leaned forward. “I won’t beat around the bush. We need to discuss whether Bucky or Virgil is to be considered the acting executive chef in your absence.”

“Fine. Let’s get this done once and for all.”

“Not so fast,” he said with an indignant sniff. “You may prefer to leap into decisions, but I take a more measured approach. One step at a time, please.”

Bristling at his chastisement, I swallowed my impatience and said, “Go on.”

He resettled himself. “For the record, there’s no doubt in my mind where your preferences lie on this issue.”

“What about your preferences?” I asked.

One side of his face crinkled up. He pursed his lips. “Let’s clear the air, shall we?”

I leaned forward, mimicking his posture, perching my elbows on my end of his desk. “I didn’t realize anything needed to be cleared between us, Peter,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, you and I have never held back. By all means, continue.”

He brought his head lower, speaking barely above a whisper. “If you don’t already know, I’m certain you at least suspect that I, too, cannot abide Virgil. If it were up to me, he would have been dismissed when Doug left. Perhaps sooner.”

I didn’t react, even though I longed to release a giant breath of relief. Sargeant and I were on the same page for once.

“The problem,” he went on, “is that Virgil has an incredibly high public profile. One that rivals even yours. The difference is that his reputation is built on cooking talent, whereas you are better known for . . .”

He let the thought hang, but I sat up straighter, my back stiffening in reaction to the obvious conclusion. From the very start, since slightly before I’d taken over as executive chef, my face had regularly appeared in news reports. Unfortunately for me, and for the residents of the White House, the focus of these articles tended to deal more with murders than marsala.

Sargeant went on, either oblivious to my sharp attention, or simply choosing not to acknowledge it. “This morning’s press conference aside, I believe your goal as executive chef is to continue to produce high-quality events and to maintain the relationship you have with the boy.”

“Josh,” I said.

“My role,” he continued with a quick nod, “is to oversee the running of this household in such a way as to make the First Family’s life here as effortless and trouble-free as possible.”

“Again, we are in agreement.”

“I am aware that Virgil handles the family’s meals, allowing you to focus on the state events.” He held up both index fingers, parallel—like vertical railroad tracks, preventing me from interrupting. “I do, however, have a very clear view of how disruptive Virgil can be to the day-to-day running of the kitchen. I intend to discuss his future with Mrs. Hyden. If she’s agreeable to recommending he seek other employment, then we will proceed accordingly. I must get an answer from you first, however: Are you willing to take on the family meals again, if Virgil’s dismissal is the ultimate outcome?”

I hadn’t expected Sargeant to offer such a tied-up-with-a-bow solution. “Absolutely,” I said, not even trying to hide the excitement in my voice. “My team has always enjoyed preparing the family’s meals. We miss it.”

Sargeant gave a quick nod. “In the meantime, I suggest you continue to do your best to work with Virgil. Play the hand you’ve been dealt, as it were.” He scribbled a note as he spoke. “I will let you know the result of my discussion with Mrs. Hyden. She and I are due for our first consultation tomorrow. She suggested that I take the whole day today to get acclimated.” He sighed. “As though it would take me that long.”

Sensing that we were done, I stood. Sargeant didn’t stop me, but he regarded me with curiosity.

“Is there something else?” I asked.

He pursed his lips again. This time when he spoke, I got the impression he was less sure of himself. “Do I understand correctly that you and your special agent beau are intending to wed soon?”

That took me aback. “You understand correctly.”

Another quick nod. “I have heard a rumor that you’ve run into a problem because the judges are backlogged.”

“Word travels fast around here.” I placed both hands on the back of the chair I’d vacated. “We’d planned to be married just as soon as the license was issued.” I shrugged as though it was nothing, but the discussion reminded me that I still hadn’t heard from Gav. Like a sharp bite from within, my stomach clenched. “We were disappointed to discover that it may take us a bit longer than we’d first thought. Unless, of course, we find a minister on our own who’s willing to perform the ceremony.”

“Do you know any ministers or members of the clergy?”

The image of Evan Bonder and his four colleagues slid into my brain. I sucked in a quick, hard breath. “Not personally, no.”

Sargeant tilted his head, doing his curious-squirrel imitation. This time the personal quirk didn’t annoy me so much. “I expect you to provide notice if you intend to take any days off.”

“Of course.”

“You will not allow this disappointment of yours to adversely impact your job performance.” He didn’t phrase it as a question.

Bristling irritation danced its way up the back of my neck. “Certainly not.”

“Thank you, Ms. Paras. That will be all.”

I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep myself quiet. Sargeant was fully within his rights to question me. I would have liked to believe, however, that he knew I wouldn’t allow personal problems to affect anything I did at the White House. If he only knew how much was on my mind right now.

I made my way back down to the kitchen, reminding myself that he was new in the job and probably wanted to establish his authority. Made sense. I’d probably do the exact same thing. By the time I made it back to the kitchen, I’d almost convinced myself of it, too.

• • •

A HALF HOUR LATER, I HAD MY BACK TO THE
pantry doorway and my wrists deep in a gooey flour mixture, when a lightning bolt of an idea hit. I opened my mouth, and almost blurted “Yablonski,” when good sense halted me before the name tumbled out.

At the other end of the center countertop, Cyan reacted to the look on my face. “What?” she asked.

Suddenly cheerier than I’d been in hours, I pulled my hands out of the bowl and grinned. “I remembered something important.” I hurried over to the sink to wash up. Bucky and Virgil weren’t paying us any attention, but I could tell Cyan was curious. “A friend of Gav’s,” I said by way of explanation, knowing it was no help to her at all, “I need to call him.”

Cyan narrowed her eyes but didn’t question me. She returned to experimenting with a molasses and orange juice mixture that we hoped would become our sweet potato side dish.

Joe Yablonski had, at one time, been Gav’s commanding officer. Now he was a good friend, one who had helped us in the very recent past. We trusted him completely and I knew that even Gav would believe it safe to tell him about the five dead men on Ainsley Street. More important, I could tell Yablonski that I hadn’t been able to reach Gav since he’d dropped me at home Thursday night.