Recipes for Disaster (26 page)

I smile. “Well, you’re lucky Evan came to me, who knew just what to do with it.”

“Let’s have it,” she mutters.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your ounce of flesh, my darling friend, Donna. Oh, quit acting so innocent! Obviously, you called me here because this is your bargaining chip.” Ever in control, she sinks gracefully into an armchair. “Let’s hear it.”

“I wouldn’t be so presumptuous.” I bat my eyes.

She takes my broad hint that she should throw out the first bone. “I presume you want me to call off that mad dog, Major Reynolds. Such a pity! He was so perfect for the job, since he already has it out for you.”

I roll my eyes in the hope that Reynolds is watching. 
Toldja
, dude. “Yeah okay, that’s a start. Keep it up, you’re on a roll.”

“I had earmarked the directorship of the CIA for someone else, but if promises aren’t made to be broken in politics, then where, I ask you?”

“Oooh, the directorship—for 
moi
?” I lay a hand on the cleft of my neck. “No thanks. I do better in the field. But I wouldn’t mind having a few friends in high places.”

“That could be arranged,” Catherine says, almost too anxiously. She’s losing her cool, poor thing. “Ryan Clancy, perhaps? Ah! Even better how about
your husband
?” She bares her teeth into a vicious smile that sends a chill down my spine. 

I give my head a saucy shake. “He’s not the desk jockey type, either.”

She sighs as she walks over to my china cabinet and pretends to admire my dishes. They were my mother’s pattern, in fact. Does she recognize them? I doubt it. “Here’s a thought! Why don’t I give you a diplomatic post? London, say—or Paris?” 

I tilt my head, as if it would be a serious consideration, then shake my head. “That’s a non-starter. Mary just started high school, and I wouldn’t want to uproot her.” I nod toward the screen. “Your assassin buddy seemed to think you were due for a big payday. Are you expecting the American people to vote for a presidential salary increase?” 

“Ha! Are you kidding?” Her laugh now is less than infectious, almost guarded. “Everyone’s got a little rainy day fund tucked away, right? I just happen to have mine far from prying eyes.” She pulls open my silver drawer. Mother liked Francis I from Reed & Barton. I will pass it on to Mary. Catherine holds a knife up to the light to inspect its pattern. “If you’re asking if I’d be willing to share, sure, why not? What will it take, Donna? A million? Two?”

“I’ll let you know when the price is right.” I walk over to her and put my hand on her shoulder. “You’ve put us both in an awkward position. Like last time, I’m not supporting your lie. I still can’t fathom your thinking. Was it was worth knocking off Robert—your own husband, who loved you so dearly—for the glory of being our next president?”

“What do you know about us? About me? About the choices I’ve made, and why? Do I regret it? Of course I do! But sometimes … sometimes the means justify the end.” She bows her head in shame.

She almost has me believing she feels some remorse, except for the fact that she’s admiring her supposedly grief-stricken profile in the mirror behind me.

She smiles at me through the mirror. “I presume your husband doesn’t know about this little shakedown.” 

“Nope, just little ol’ me. I’d rather he presume I’m his frugal little wifey.”

“He’ll make a handsome widower.”

By the time the mirror reveals what she’s holding behind her back, it’s too late. She stabs me with a steak knife.

Thank goodness, it misses its mark—my gut—but it still catches me low, on my side.

I pull it out and stumble after her, but she’s already out the side door.

What she doesn’t expect is Rin Tin Tin and Lassie to sideswipe her on their way in to see if the kids dropped any dinner crumbs under the table.

Catherine’s balance isn’t helped when I pull the rug out from under her, literally. 

The commotion she makes as she lands on her ass brings the Secret Service crashing through the door. Despite the blood gushing out of me, they tackle me and are about to cuff me when Jack, Ryan and Reynolds come bounding into the room. 

Catherine doesn’t get the fact that the jig is up. Instead, she stumbles through some silly scenario that has me attacking her with the knife while she wrestles it out of my hand and stabs me in self-defense.

I’ve got to hand it to the bitch—she’s always the hero of her own story.

Reynolds explains to the Secret Service agents what just went down, and even puts the Attorney General on the phone, so that her detail gets the full lay of the land. 

She is now their prisoner.

I turn to Reynolds. “Did you get what you needed?”

He nods, just as I pass out.

I wake to the sweet smell of roses.

Only one eyelid wishes to cooperate with my brain’s mandate to open, and it does so only partially. Despite the cloud of fog around him, the man in the chair beside my hospital bed has all the right features to make my heart go pitter-patter. Even sitting, he towers over me. His hair is dark and thick. He must hear me stirring, because he makes the half-turn needed for our eyes to meet—

Lee Chiffray.

I bolt up, but before I topple out of the bed, he reaches over to steady me.

Even after he eases me back into a nest of pillows, his hand lingers in mine. It stays there until I shift my eyes toward the Secret Service agent whose head can be seen through my hospital door window.

He takes the hint, and leans back in his chair. “Your husband is picking up your children, but he should be back any moment now.”

“Where’s Babette?” My question comes out as a croak.

“She’s with her stylist, shopping for the appropriate outfit for our interview with Oprah. It takes place later tonight, at Lion’s Lair”—he rolls his eyes—“after the news anchors school the American public on the little-used civics lesson as to why the vice president-elect can, and will, be sworn into the office of the presidency, instead of the candidate they voted for.”

“That’s disconcerting, to say the least. Considering it’s the presidency, won’t some sort of special election need to be held?”

He shakes his head. “No. Instead, the vice president assumes the role of president.”

Without thinking, I pat my wound. Big mistake. Even the slightest touch elicits a wince. “I must have skipped that day in school.”

“To put it simply, the Electoral College has already counted the votes and formally elected Catherine Connelly Martin as President of the United States. However, impeachment proceedings need not take place—that is, if she resigns prior to being sworn into office."

“The timing has worked out perfectly, hasn’t it? The Inauguration is still a week away,” I point out. “Still, I can’t believe Catherine wouldn’t be fighting this tooth and nail. If anyone knows how to spin a debacle, it’s her.”

“For once, Catherine has listened to reason. Even she knows it’s for the good of the country that she resign immediately.” He shrugs. “No one expects her to plead guilty, but the evidence against her is virtually insurmountable.” 

“Let me guess. She resigned on the condition that you commute her sentence before you leave office.”

He laughs. “Smart lady! Go to the head of the class. Even if the voters grant me a second term, her appeals will still be meandering through the court system. I’ll do it in my last hour as president.”

“It is certainly a lucky turn of events for you, President-Elect Chiffray.”

“If you say so. Frankly, the fact that the elected president will soon be a convicted killer means whoever sits in the Oval Office has a lot of work to do in regaining the nation’s trust.”

“You said that with just the right amount of humility and hope. You’ve certainly got your Oprah sound-bite down pat.”

His smile wavers. “I’ve always loved the way you’re able to laugh in the face of adversity.” He picks up my hand again. This time, though, when I pull away, he doesn’t let go. “You thought it right to bring Robert’s killer to justice, no matter where the chips fell. Donna I want to thank you for that. He was a true friend to me.” He looks down at my hand. “I’ve always felt you were my friend, too.”

I don’t know how to answer that. Despite Jack’s grousing about him, his instincts are right. Since Lee and I met on Fantasy Island, it seems he’s always in the wrong place at the right time. 

Frankly, it’s too uncanny to be coincidental.

“In fact, I hope you’ll join Babette and me, as our guests, at the inauguration,” he continues. “Consider the Lincoln bedroom reserved for you and … Carl.”

His hesitation brings a blush to my cheeks. He’s always treated Jack politely, but coolly. “But surely you’ll want to save that honor for some big supporter—”

“No, the honor is all yours. My God, you’re the one who took a bullet—well, a knife—for trying to solve Robert’s murder.” He touches my side gently. “Besides, I’ve never had the need to take donations, so I owe nothing to anyone.”

“It’s good to hear you have no debts to pay off for being where fate has put you.”

I meant that sincerely. So why does he look so sad?

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Jack is staring at us through the hospital window.

“Ah, your loving spouse has arrived,” he murmurs. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

“Thanks for stopping by, Lee. I mean that, from the bottom of my heart.” I wave Jack in. “Maybe he knows if Catherine has divulged the name of the shooter. I’m dying to know who it was. Professional curiosity, of course.” 

My declaration takes the smile off Lee’s face. He nods curtly at Jack as he heads down the hospital hallway, with his Secret Service detail flanking him on all sides.

Jack looks from me to Lee and back again. “Talk about friends in high places. Mrs. Stone, you’ve certainly come up in the world.”

“Make that ‘we,’ Tonto. We’re now a power couple. And as such, guess where we’ll be sleeping on the night of the inauguration?” I pat the bed. 

He flops down beside me. “I’ll be happy as long as it isn’t here—or in jail.”

I shift my body so that my head lies in the crook of his shoulder. “Neither. The Lincoln bedroom.”

“Wow! Does that mean I have to wear a stovepipe hat?”

I raise a brow. "I’d prefer it if you didn’t wear anything at all.”

“You’re on—that is, if you go commando, too.”

I reward him with a pinky swear.

Then I let him peek under my hospital gown. He must like what he sees, because he’s sporting an ear-to-ear smile. “Do you think the nurse will skip her rounds to your room if I put a sign on the door that says, ‘If the hospital bed is rockin’, don’t come a’knockin’?”

I give him a kiss that suggests it’s worth a try. 

He’s so happy that he’s taking me up on it. 

Now, if only the nurses would quit banging on the door.

Chapter 20

Hail to the Chief!

Whenever the president makes a public appearance, the song played that announces him as he walks into the room is called "Hail to the Chief." It alerts all citizens, friends, family, voters and rubberneckers that, yes—the Chief Executive of our great nation has finally arrived!

Frankly, we should all have a song associated with us. For example, wouldn’t it be great if Working in a Coalmine played over the intercom, whenever your boss stepped off the elevator? Or if the patter of your children’s feet were accompanied by Baby Love?

And just imagine how great it would be if you knew your ex-husband was in shooting distance whenever you heard, I Still Miss You Baby, But My Aim's Gettin' Better. 

One way you’ll have them humming “Mmm Good,” is with this recipe, which is fit for a White House reception:

Rose’s Brisket

(From Melissa Brown Zucker, Oceanside, New York)

Ingredients

Thin-cut brisket, season to taste. 

4 oz of stewed tomatoes 

Full can of water

Bag of small red or Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and quartered

Carrots, sliced in ½-inch disks 

Directions

1: Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

2: Season the brisket, to taste. 

3: Add the tomatoes 

4: Cover and put in oven for 1 1/2 hours.

5: Remove, slice meat, add peeled carrots and quartered potatoes. 

6: Put back in oven for 1 1/2 hours.