Recipes for Disaster (25 page)

What the hell. No one likes to drink alone.

I’ve just taken a swig when I notice Mary in the doorway. I hide the bottle behind my back as she knocks hesitantly on the doorframe. Yes, she saw me, but she’s learned to cut me some slack. She’s quite aware of my tender state over the past few months.

The good news is that she has been flourishing in school. In fact, all my children have. And I’ve been happy to hear from Babs’ mother that her daughter is doing much better, too. Mary and Wendy have kept her close, reminding her, as only besties can, that they adore her.

The one joy I’ve had this winter was sharing with Mary some of my mother’s recipes.

I beckon her forward with a smile. But my look changes to shock when she steps aside and we see Evan.

His eyes are dark and red-rimmed, as if he hasn’t slept in days. I walk over to him and hold out my hand. “Evan, tell me—what has happened?”

He shakes his head. “I think my mother … I think my mother murdered my father.” His declaration weighs so heavy on him that he bows his head. He pulls a thumb drive from his pocket. “The proof is here. I don’t know what I should do with it, but I can’t live with knowing that she’d do something like this, and get away with it.”

Jack and I turn to each other. He nods at me, and I run into the family room. 

Jeff is playing with my laptop. When I grab it out of his hands, he cries, “No fair!”

“This is a work tool, not a toy,” I scold him.

He frowns. “But you haven’t been working.”

He doesn’t need to remind me.

No matter. Something tells me that’s about to change.

When I return with the laptop, I see Jack looking out the window. “I don’t see your Secret Service detail,” he says to Evan.

Evan shrugs. “Mother is holed up out here, at Mr. Chiffray’s, having strategy sessions with some money men. I walked through the front door of my school, handed the head of the school a fake note from my mother that said I was needed for some photo op, then I went out the back door with a friend. We caught the D.C. Metro to Dulles, and I hopped a plane here, using my friend’s driver’s license as identification. I put my airline ticket on his credit card, and paid him cash for it.” He turns to me. “It’s late enough that I guess everyone has figured out I’m gone and is panicking about now, but I had to get here, to you. When Dad realized he knew you back in high school, he told me that you were the most honest person he’d ever known. He said, ‘I’m glad she’s on our side.’ It’s the reason I’m here now. I had to share this with someone I could trust.”

The lump in my throat hurts as I say, “I felt the same way about him. Tell me, Evan, what's happened?”

“Since Dad’s death and then the election and all, my grades have slipped. I’ve had a hard time focusing on anything but … him.” Evan glances away, ashamed. “The last thing my mom needs to hear is that I’m flunking trigonometry and physics. She’s got too much on her mind, what with the inauguration next week.” He frowns. “Unfortunately, last night I left my iPad at school, and they’d already locked it up for the night. Since my homework is in my iCloud account, I thought I’d sneak onto Mom’s computer, access it there, then download it onto a thumb drive in order to move it onto my computer. She would have been angry, had she known. She’s got a lot of confidential files on it—stuff that no one but members of the House are supposed to see.” 

“She’s on the Intelligence, Foreign Affairs, and Energy committees as well as Armed Forces,” I remind Jack 

Evan nods first, then shakes his head. “You’re right, but I swear, I never looked at any of those files. I just downloaded my homework and moved it onto a thumb drive I found on her desk. When I opened the thumb drive, I realized it also contained this video clip. It was taken from the security webcam at our Libertyville farmhouse. Here, let me show it to you.”

He downloads the clip into my laptop. 

The camera’s point of view is the home’s library. Catherine sits on the settee. A man sits on a chair, with his back to the camera. He wears a bulky coat, khaki pants, and a wide-brimmed fishing hat. His hands are gloved. 

The man is Robert’s shooter. 

“I hear you’re a crack shot,” she says solemnly. “That you make no mistakes.”

“I won’t miss.” The man assures her. He pauses then adds, “And don’t worry, it’ll be so quick that he won’t suffer.”

Once again, he’s speaking through the voice changer software, but the cadence is the same.

In response, she closes her eyes and murmurs, “Good, yes. Painless.”

She raises her hand to her face. Is she wiping away a tear? It’s hard for me to tell because she drops her hand just as quickly.

“Afterward, you’ll be a shoo-in.” The man stands up, but all the while he keeps his back to the camera. “Isn’t that what you want?”

She hesitates, then nods. “I just never thought I’d have to make … the ultimate sacrifice.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Congresswoman. You said it yourself—
he’s standing in our way
. He didn’t want you to run in the first place! Now look at you—your party’s frontrunner! Well, almost. Who knew Randy Jennings would be last man standing against you? No one does ‘stiff upper lip’ like, you, lady. It’s time to put it to good use; give the voters a reason to see your mettle in a time of adversity. That way, we all get what we want, including you—power, prestige, and a Swiss bank account filled with more money than you and your heirs can spend in six lifetimes.”

She bites her lower lip, still not convinced.

“He’s thinking of divorcing you.”

“What?...You’re—you’re crazy!” Catherine's anger is tinged with doubt.

“Trust me, we’ve been monitoring his calls. He’s already talked to one divorce attorney. If he follows through, you won’t be able to get elected dogcatcher, let alone president.”

She sits there for the longest moment. Finally, she nods.

The man disappears though the French doors leading to the garden. 

Catherine turns toward the mantle. A framed photo of Robert catches her eye. She stares at it for a long time. Laughter can be heard. It's coming from another room. Robert's deep chuckle is echoed by Evan's belly laugh.

She lays the picture face down and sets a smile on her face before walking out the door, her head held high. 

I turn off the tape then look up to see Evan’s reaction. 

His face looks set in stone. “We were laughing at some picture of Mom and Dad when they were in high school. When I saw the tears in her eyes, I thought she was sad because it reminded her of a time they were actually happy together. Now I know the truth.” He looks up at me. “I’m not mistaken, am I? She knew what would happen to Dad, didn’t she?”

I nod. “It was the same man, yes.”

Tears roll down Evan’s cheeks. “Then I’ve got to hand this over to the police. I didn’t want to do it until I was sure.”

“As it turns out, the Federal investigator who is in charge of the shooting is still in touch with me—sort of. Would you mind if we call him now, so that he can see it, too?”

Evan nods, as if in a trance. 

Jack reaches for his cell phone. “Ryan, can you get Major Reynolds over here? We’ve got some evidence that may make a difference in his investigation … Yes, then we’ll be expecting both of you.” 

The realization of what he’s set in motion weighs so heavily on Evan that he collapses onto the couch. Mary sits beside him, cradling him in her arms. His life will never be the same. She knows this, too.

I want to hold my daughter; to tell her that love is stronger than hate or ambition or desire.

But Catherine has shown her the opposite. 

Once again, Catherine proves she is unique: as a spouse, as a lover, and as a mother.

As for what she’s done, and how she justified it to herself? It’s just politics as usual.

Chapter 19

Lame Duck

Someone holding public office whose term has expired or cannot be continued, and who therefore has less power to affect legislation than when his term started.

You may liken it to the power you have over your children, before they learn how to drive and can solo on their own. Once they have that driver’s license, it’s, “Mom Who?” and you’re whistling in the wind created by them as they peel out of your driveway at breakneck speeds.

Speaking of the wind beneath wings, the lamest duck of all is one with a crispy-on-the-outside-but-tender-on-the-inside skin glazed in a delicious orange sauce, like so:

Honey-Dipped Duck

(Adapted from AllRecipes)

Ingredients

One Whole Duck

Chopped Basil

An Orange, quartered

Teaspoon of Ginger Root

1 TSP Salt

1 Cup water

1 Cup Honey

1 Cup Orange Juice concentrate, thawed

1 TSP Lemon juice

One stick Butter

Directions

1: Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).

2: Mix the basil, ginger and salt in a small bowl, then sprinkle mixture on inside and outside of duck. 

3: Stuff duck with orange quarters, and lay breast side up in roaster. 

4: Add water to bottom of roaster.

5: In a small saucepan combine the honey, butter, lemon juice and orange juice concentrate. Simmer together over low heat until syrupy, then pour a little of the mixture over the duck, saving the rest for basting.

6:  Cover roaster, and roast the duck in the preheated oven, for 30 minutes. 

7: Turn duck breast down, reduce heat to 300 degrees F (150 degrees C) and roast, covered, for another 2 to 2 1/2 hours, or until very tender.

8:  If desired, turn duck breast-up during last few minutes of cooking, to brown.

“How dare your daughter coerce my son to leave his school!” Catherine’s voice thunders through my house. “Ha! Figures that she’d turn out to be a conniving hussy, just like you.”

Behind the shelf holding my good china is a secret compartment, which holds a SIG P22k DAK. While I am sorely tempted to flip the switch that accesses it, I temper my desire to do so with the knowledge that (a) the Secret Service detail assigned to Catherine would take me out quicker than my kitten heels will allow me to flee; (b) it’s much better to keep Catherine alive, in order to get her to admit to her role in Robert’s murder. 

Unbeknownst to her, this little tête-a-tête is being watched and video-recorded by Ryan, Major Reynolds and Jack, from our panic room, which wasn’t picked up in the Secret Service’s threat assessment of my home. 

In other words, I am the decoy that will make her a lame duck before she takes her first step into the Oval Office.

So yes, I keep my cool. “Catherine, Evan wasn’t here to see Mary. He was here because of something he felt he should pass along to me. You see, like Robert, he trusts me more than he trusts you.” I acknowledge her wince with a smile. “I felt you should see it first, since you’ve got the most to lose.” I nod toward her Secret Service detail. “In private.”

She hesitates. By now, she’s used to living her life in the public spotlight. But she’s still wary of sharing it with spooks who don’t always take your secrets to the grave with them.

Finally, she motions them to leave us alone.

I wait a long moment after the door shuts behind them. Then I walk over to the coffee table and hit the button on my computer that starts the recording of her discussion with the assassin.

She gasps when she realizes what she’s watching. 

As each of the six and a half minutes ticks by, she doesn’t say a word, but her face hardens with the realization that she can’t hide behind a mask of ignorance, let alone one of innocence. 

Finally the video stops, freezing on her heading out the door and to her fate. 

“CeeCee, why did you do it—have Robert killed? Couldn’t you have just run on your principles—or even your voting record?”  I ponder that for a second then shake my head. “Sorry! I forgot who I’m talking to.”

“I told you to never call me that,” she says through gritted teeth. Seeing my frown, she calms down enough to wave away that pesky gnat of a thought. “He wanted a divorce! It would have ruined my chances of winning. Not to mention, he threatened to expose some of my most generous donors’ less than worthy deeds.” She shrugs. “It’s easy to be a saint when you have no one to answer to.”