All the President's Menus

Book 8: A White House Chef Mystery

by Julie Hyzy

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

It’s an old adage that too many cooks spoil the broth. But when a tour of the White House kitchen by a group of foreign chefs ends in murder, it’s Olivia Paras who finds herself in the soup…

Due to a government sequester, entertaining at the White House has been severely curtailed. So executive chef Olivia Paras is delighted to hear that plans are still on to welcome a presidential candidate from the country of Saardisca—the first woman to run for office—and four of that nation’s top chefs.

But while leading the chefs on a kitchen tour, pastry chef Marcel passes out suddenly—and later claims he was drugged. When one of the visiting chefs collapses and dies, it’s clear someone has infiltrated the White House with ill intent. Could it be an anti-Saardiscan zealot? Is the candidate a target? Are the foreign chefs keeping more than their recipes a secret? Once again, Olivia must make sleuthing the special of the day…

Release date: January 6, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

CHAPTER 1

As executive chef at the White House, I was responsible for feeding the First Family and—whether they be friend or foe—all the home’s guests. I took my duties to heart, and was exceedingly proud of my team and the small part we played in shaping our country’s history.

My role at the White House had evolved over the years, much to the Secret Service’s dismay. Through no fault of my own (well, most of the time) I’d been entangled in situations involving enemies of the president, international assassins, and those who attempted to conspire against the United States. Armed with stubborn tenacity and more than a bit of good luck, I’d had a hand in seeing justice served, and even saved a few lives in the process.

It had been suggested, more than once, that President and Mrs. Hyden find less of a troublemaker to head up their kitchen. But the First Family liked me and what I brought to the table, both literally and figuratively.

Several months ago, Special Agent in Charge, Leonard Gavin—Gav—and I had gotten married in a surprise ceremony here in the White House. Surrounded by friends and family as we exchanged vows, my life changed forever. After the ceremony, during the sweet reception that my assistants, Bucky and Cyan, had arranged for us, I’d endured countless good-natured barbs about how, now that I’d “settled down,” perhaps my terrorist-fighting days were over.

And maybe they were.

Since our wedding day, life had been very, very quiet. And truly, I had no quarrel with that. If I never went into hand-to-hand combat, if I never faced another barrel of a gun, if I was never again left bound and gagged with no chance of escape, well, I wasn’t about to complain.

I rested my chin in one hand, elbow perched on the White House kitchen’s gleaming countertop. The fingers of my other hand beat out a non-rhythm of impatience against the shiny stainless steel.

It’s not that I craved life-threatening adventure. Not at all. But right about now I would have appreciated a little diversion.

Unfortunately, however, we were in the middle of a government sequester. State dinners had been delayed, parties canceled, and visitors put off until our country’s leadership got its act together.

Staring at the clock, waiting for Bucky to return from an errand, I reflected on the boredom that loomed ahead. I longed for a challenge. I hungered for the excitement that came from planning a state dinner—the kind that kept guests talking for years, regaling envious friends with descriptions of mouthwatering appetizers and luxurious entrees. I ached to collaborate with the florist, the sommelier, and of course, Marcel, our executive pastry chef who could dream up a dessert that was as spectacular as it was sweet.

My skin practically crawled, itching for the president and First Lady to announce that a hundred guests were expected for dinner tomorrow night. I wouldn’t have minded, even if they demanded we serve a seven-course meal. I would have gone insane with preparation, of course, but that was far more appealing than the doldrums we were facing now.

Most of all, I wanted Cyan back.

Until the country’s situation improved, a number of “nonessential” members of the White House staff were on furlough—among them, Cyan. I certainly didn’t consider her nonessential. Quite the opposite. But when the government decided to slash salaries, they neglected to seek my counsel.

Bucky and I were doing our best to keep the kitchen operating efficiently, which—to be fair—wasn’t difficult, given the ripple effect the sequester was having on entertainment. I thanked my lucky stars Bucky hadn’t been sent home, too. I’d have gone stir-crazy on my own.

Because cost-cutting strategies involved eliminating most fancy dinners, he and I didn’t have much to do beyond preparing the family’s meals and feeding numerous—often angry—congressional leaders during marathon negotiation sessions held at the White House.

Marcel, the executive pastry chef whose French accent seemed to grow thicker with each passing day, had also been kept on. I knew why. Despite what the anti-Hyden pundits may assume, Marcel’s job wasn’t secure because the First Family chose to indulge their collective sweet tooth. Truth was, the Hydens weren’t big fans of dessert. They preferred savory items.

What kept Marcel busy in his kitchen was the fact that the president recognized how effective a tray full of expertly crafted and lick-your-fingers-clean pastries could be at the bargaining table. While my concoctions of steak salad, lobster bisque, or pork tenderloin sandwiches satisfied appetites, Marcel’s creations had far more potential to cheer up grumpy lawmakers.

In my heart, I knew I shouldn’t complain. Granted, Cyan was out of the kitchen, and that wasn’t optimal. But, on the bright side, Virgil was missing, too. A few months earlier the First Lady had delivered an ultimatum to our high-drama chef: Virgil would be required to seek help for his anger management issues and apologize to me and my staff or his career at the White House was over. The man had attempted to undermine my authority and sabotage my career once too often. That final, fateful time, Mrs. Hyden had witnessed his hostility and laid down the law.

Since that fateful day, we hadn’t heard a peep from the dining diva. Our chief usher, Peter Everett Sargeant III, kept us informed enough to let us know that Virgil remained in town, but beyond that, no one knew what he was up to, nor whether he’d taken steps to address his problems. He hadn’t apologized. I had a feeling it was that, more than the mandate to get help, that was holding him back from returning to work.

With all that in mind, I’d decided that my only option was to wait out the sequester with little to no complaint. Except for worrying about Cyan, who was living without a paycheck for the foreseeable future, we were under very little pressure. Food preparation at the White House had been the quietest and least stressful it had been for as long as I’d worked here. Maybe I should try harder to enjoy the lull.

“Good morning, Ms. Paras.”

I straightened to see Peter Sargeant and his assistant, Margaret, in my kitchen doorway. He wore his customary squirrel-alert expression. She carried a tablet and blinked at me from behind large tortoiseshell glasses. Neither smiled, but that was no surprise. Having them show up in my kitchen together, however, was. The last time they had, it had been to inform me of Cyan’s furlough. I braced myself, hoping Bucky wasn’t about to be cut, too.

Sargeant stepped forward, his ever-eager associate close behind. “I hope we aren’t interrupting your busy day.” Giving a derisive look around the quiet, pristine kitchen, he added, “Or your daydreaming.”

“What do you need, Peter?” I asked, ignoring the snarky comment. Over the years I’d come to accept his personality. I appreciated the fact that I could depend on him for support when I needed it, but on a day-to-day basis, I found dealing with his persnickety attitude to be more than a bit tedious.

He turned to Margaret. “You may do the honors.”

She was tiny, even shorter than Sargeant, with small fingers and big eyes. Mid-forties, she sported a short, dark bob and wore clothes that were so perfectly suited, I wondered if she and Sargeant shared the same tailor.

“We have news and important updates to share with you.” She cleared her throat and read from her tablet. “The first comes from an e-mail to Peter Everett Sargeant, from Parker Hyden.” She glanced up at me at that, lifting her eyebrows in emphasis, as though I wouldn’t have recognized the president’s name on my own.

“Share the pertinent information, Margaret,” Sargeant said. “No need for dramatics.”

Margaret tightened her lips at the rebuke, pushed her glasses up her nose, and went on. “We will host a Saardiscan dignitary for dinner, approximately two weeks from now.” She slid her gaze toward Sargeant before continuing. “The second update comes from the secretary of state, informing us that the chefs who were originally scheduled to visit your kitchen are on their way, too.”

“The Saardiscans are coming?” I repeated. “What about the sequester?”

Margaret said, “Does it matter? We were told to notify all departments. That’s really all you need to know.”

Even Sargeant seemed taken aback by his assistant’s snippiness. “Yes, well, there is more to it,” he said. “As you know, the Saardiscan chefs’ visit was arranged for more than a year ago. We were loath to cancel.”

I did know. This was a very big deal where our two countries’ diplomatic efforts were concerned. “But you did cancel,” I said. “Are you telling me they’re coming tomorrow, after all?”

He nodded.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes for a brief second to gather my thoughts. I’d wished for this, I reminded myself. Mere moments ago.

Sargeant went on to explain, “When the sequester was first announced, everything was canceled. The problem, at least as it relates to the White House, is that negotiation can be delicate with some countries. Saardisca is one of these.”

I understood, even as my mind raced. Had we planned to entertain chefs from France or Canada, the administration might have been able to rearrange things with little more than a polite apology. Saardisca, however, was an uneasy ally. A frenemy. We hadn’t had a political or ideological blowup between our countries in more than a decade, but that didn’t mean we agreed on everything. Truth was, we didn’t agree on much.

Yet, I wasn’t prepared for this sudden change. I’d had a plan in place for the Saardiscans’ visit, but once the sequester had been imposed, I’d put those plans on hold. I needed to salvage my notes, pull lists together, and set up flowcharts.

Ideas banged against each other in my noisy brain; I barely registered that Sargeant was still talking.

“Fulfilling our promise to Saardisca has been deemed of the utmost importance. The decision, therefore, has been made to honor our agreement.”

“I wish I would have known this was a possibility,” I said.

One side of his mouth curled up. “I’m sure the president regrets his oversight in neglecting to include you in the decision making.”

I ignored the sarcasm. “How long will they be here?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” I repeated, surprise jolting my voice up several notches. “I thought they were to visit for three or four days.” So much for the original plans I’d made. Those notes would barely get me started.

“Things change,” he said, deadpan. “In what appears to be serendipitous timing, the delegates will be working with you for the duration of the Saardiscan presidential candidate’s visit to the United States. President Hyden will host an official dinner for all of them when the candidate returns here after touring the country.”

“Did you say ‘candidate’?” I asked. “You mean it’s the challenger for president who’s coming to visit?” That surprised me. The incumbent had been in power for decades.

“Yes, Kerry Freiberg,” he said. “If you kept up with headlines, you would know that her campaign has been gaining steam.”

I did keep up with headlines, but there had been no mention of her coming here. “She’s the first female to run for that office, isn’t she?”

“No one expects her to win, but the fact that she’s the first woman to make it this far is garnering her a great deal of press.” He sniffed. “And because her platform is based on improving diplomatic relations with other countries, a stop in the United States is a requirement.”

“A two-week stop.” I rubbed my forehead. I needed to get organized, and quickly. “Tell me what I need to know. Do you have the date that we’ll be hosting her for dinner? Will there be more than one event? Do we have dietary dossiers for Ms. Freiberg and the members of her staff?”

Margaret had begun taking notes, writing longhand with a stylus, as I outlined all the information I’d need.

“We will get back to you on these matters,” Sargeant said when I took a breath. “And whatever else you need to know. As you can imagine, there are other departments to be notified and a great deal that my office needs to oversee. If you’ll excuse us.”

Bucky returned a little while later, bringing with him the woodsy scent of autumn air. He hung up his windbreaker and came to stand over my shoulder to study the notes I was jotting as thoughts occurred to me. I would arrange these scribbles into some semblance of order later.

“What’s up, chief?” he asked.

My mind twisted and flipped with a myriad of things I needed to do—hundreds of things I wouldn’t have imagined having to worry about a half hour earlier. My fingers tingled; my leg bounced with impatience.

I looked up at him, grinning. “We’re having company.”

CHAPTER 2

When the president’s son, Josh, tumbled into the kitchen that afternoon for his cooking lesson, I had the unhappy duty of letting him know that the plans we’d made for the coming weeks had been canceled.

“That stinks,” he said, brows furrowing over dark eyes. The kid was far too considerate to pitch a fit, but I detected a tiny whine in his tone. “I thought that this sequester thing meant that I would get to spend more time in the kitchen, not less.”

“I thought so, too,” I said. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Disappointed, he nodded.

“While the visitors are here, the Secret Service thinks it would be best to keep you out of the kitchen completely.”

“Stupid Secret Service.”

“Your safety is the most important thing,” I said, ruffling his hair. “And we both know that’s serious business.”

Grudgingly, he nodded again. “We can still work together today, though, right?”

Despite the fact that I had a thousand things to get done before tomorrow, I refused to disappoint him further. “Absolutely. Let’s get started.”

* * *

By the time the Saardiscans arrived the next morning, I’d received dossiers on all four of them as well as a little more background on why this particular diplomatic endeavor had been given the green light when so many others had not.

President Hyden and his advisers had discovered that canceling the chefs’ visit would be viewed as a personal affront to the current Saardiscan government. Rather than risk a political firestorm and public-relations nightmare with the touchy country, the president had chosen to take the high road and see this endeavor through.

I suppose I should have anticipated this, at least a little. We were, whether it was acknowledged or not, putting our neck out politically by hosting the chefs here. Saardisca would have been reluctant to let this opportunity go.

Recent unpopular decisions by Saardiscan leaders had caused several other countries to give them the cold shoulder. If passive-aggressive games could be played at high-stakes tables like the U.N.’s, then those nations were doubling down for the win.

Bucky and I had gone over the chefs’ dossiers the night before, discovering that the documents were light on substance. We’d been given copies of their solemn-faced passport photos—all of which reminded me of mug shots—along with information about which province each man hailed from and where they’d studied. There was almost zero in terms of personal information.

“Not much to go on,” Bucky had said.

I pointed at each photo in turn. “Kilian, Tibor, Hector, and Nate,” I said. “I need to memorize their faces so I don’t mix them up. You know how hard it is to keep people straight when you meet them all at once.”

“Not a very pleasant-looking bunch,” he said.

I laughed. “My passport photo isn’t much better.”

“All men, too.”

“According to the notes, Kilian and Tibor are the top two chefs in their country,” I said, “but neither was invited to the Club des Chefs des Chefs this year. Or the year before.”

“Sounds to me like Saardisca is upset that they haven’t been invited to the grown-ups’ table,” Bucky said.

“They feel snubbed; not that I blame them. This venture may be their ticket in, assuming things go well.”

Bucky stepped back and folded his arms across his chest. “No pressure on us. No way,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Seems like a lot to ask of a kitchen that’s operating short-staffed.”

I pulled in a breath. I knew Bucky was right, that there was enormous pressure on us to make this work. And yet, I was thrilled. We had a project. An important one. I couldn’t wait to meet these men.

“We’re serving as kitchen ambassadors,” I said. “Our job isn’t to craft policy. Our job is to make the chefs feel welcome. And to keep everything on an even keel while they’re here. We can do that.”

“If you say so, chief.”

“Diplomacy has to start somewhere.”

The men arrived in the kitchen a short while later, accompanied by two Secret Service agents. After we made introductions and quietly assessed one another, I showed them around the main kitchen. They took everything in slowly, occasionally asking a question, and making unintelligible noises that could have been appreciation or disdain.

While the Saardiscans were in the White House, they’d be allowed unrestricted access to the main kitchen, pastry kitchen, two pantries, the refrigeration area, and some storage. They would also be allowed in the Center Hall and ground floor as needed, but if they were to travel elsewhere in the building, they would require an escort.

Marcel had taken our visitors for a quick lunch before providing a tour of the pastry kitchen. Bucky and I planned to join them in a few minutes, as soon as we finished plating lunch for the First Lady and her staff. The president’s meal had been sent to the West Wing twenty minutes earlier.

One of the Saardiscans returned to the kitchen. He came around the corner with his hands balled, elbows up, as though looking for a fistfight. Moving quickly, he strode in, not making eye contact with either Bucky or me.

It took me a moment to remember which one he was. “Tibor,” I called to the man. Muscular and strong-shouldered, he was systematically opening and shutting every stainless steel cabinet in the room. The brisk clanking spoke to his vexation. “What are you looking for?”

He spun, scowling. Tall and solid, he was at least fifteen years my senior. His face was lined and red, like a fresh cut of flank steak. He had thick, black hair, which he wore brushed back and that quivered with gel.

“Nate told me to bring him a new apron.” Tibor flung his hands in the air. “How do I find anything in this place? Every cabinet looks the same.”

Bucky glanced at me. His lips twisted and he looked away. Neither he nor I could mistake Tibor’s contemptuous tone, but Bucky knew better than to snap back, thereby risking an international incident. He held his tongue and waited for me to respond.

“We keep our extra linens in that cabinet.” I pointed. Tibor would have found them eventually but I saved him about six cabinets’ worth of banging. “Did something happen to the one he was wearing?”

Tibor huffed, as though I’d asked a foolish question.

Bucky made a similar noise that was probably meant for Tibor’s benefit, but the agitated man ignored it.

The four visiting chefs had only been here a few hours, but I was already seeing personality traits emerge. Tibor was the hothead of the bunch. I hadn’t yet decided whether it was me he didn’t like, or women in general.

“Why do you have everything closed up?” he asked. When Tibor spoke, only his bottom teeth showed, reminding me of Jack Klugman in old reruns of The Odd Couple and Quincy, M.E. Or the cartoon dog Mutley, but without the laugh. Tibor motioned again at the gleaming row of cabinets. “Why not keep everything more easy to see?”

“That’s a fair question,” I said. A tuxedoed butler arrived to pick up the chicken pita sandwiches and bowls of quinoa and chicken soup we’d prepared for Mrs. Hyden’s lunch meeting. “Glass-front cabinets would make it easier to find things, but a lot more difficult to hide the mess.” I smiled. Tibor didn’t.

Bucky and I covered the lunch items then handed them to the butler for loading onto his rolling cart. “Thanks, Jackson,” I said to him.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said with a wink. “Looks and smells as wonderful as always.”

Once Jackson had taken off, Tibor—having procured the apron he sought—scowled again. “I don’t understand you Americans.”

Bucky’s face twitched. In a heartbeat, I knew this was going to be a long couple of weeks.

As much as I wanted to fire off a retort, I held back. I needed to remain tactful. More important, I needed to maintain control. Until I got to know these visitors a little bit better I couldn’t risk offending them.

“What don’t you understand?” I asked, keeping my tone lightly conversational. “Maybe I can help you.”

“Never mind.”

I’d learned early on that crusty people often used their crabby demeanor to mask insecurities. It was taking a great deal of effort on my part, but I vowed not to judge these new arrivals. They were probably as uncomfortable in a strange workspace as we were having them here.

I wiped my hands on my apron, addressing both Bucky and Tibor. “Are you ready to head upstairs?” I asked, pointing in the direction of the pastry kitchen.

* * *

When we arrived, Marcel was holding court in his deliciously creative kingdom.

Cramped and mostly windowless, this nonetheless efficient pastry kitchen had been created by carving out space from the home’s high-ceilinged pantry below.

This mezzanine-level work area, which was always tight, felt overwhelmingly warm today with the addition of four sizeable Saardiscans. Their tangy body odor made me wonder how often they bathed. Bucky and I stood closest to the exit, where I shifted from foot to foot, feeling a tingle of claustrophobia crawl up the back of my neck.

Oblivious, or merely accustomed to the compact surroundings and warm scent of humanity, Marcel was in his element. His dark, round face gleamed with pride as he showed off samples of the remarkable desserts he’d lovingly created for dozens of state events. Years before either of us had started working here, one of Marcel’s predecessors had installed a glass cabinet on the wall to display the exquisite models, which sat like priceless works of art on shiny shelves.

While some of Marcel’s most noteworthy accomplishments had been removed from the glass case due to deterioration, age, or from gathering too much dust, our ebullient French chef’s all-time favorite item was still holding strong. It was my favorite as well. A few years back, when President Hyden had invited the illustrious author Ray Bradbury for dinner, Marcel had created sunny dandelions fashioned from pulled sugar. A fist-sized bouquet of them in an edible vase had served as centerpiece.

Kilian, the leader of the Saardiscan contingent—the top chef, if you will—shook his head, his pale, soft face creasing into a frown. He used a chubby finger to scratch the top of his freckled crown. I put him in his early fifties, but he may have been younger. His baldness, ample girth, and cheeks blazing with broken blood vessels gave him the appearance of a well-fed, successful businessman.

“Is that not a weed plant?” he asked. While all of them spoke English far better than I would ever be able to speak Saardiscan, Kilian’s command of our language seemed to be the best of the bunch. “Why would you choose to decorate an elegant dinner with unwanted shrubbery?”

“Ah, but you see, this is a very special plant,” Marcel began in his mellifluous French accent. He must have anticipated the question, because as he launched into a nostalgic chronicle of Bradbury’s work, he leaned over to pull a slim paperback from a nearby shelf. Holding up a well-worn copy of Dandelion Wine, Marcel waxed poetic about how both he and President Hyden were enormous fans of the late master’s work. As was I.

The dandelions’ graceful, lance-shaped leaves and their heads’ luminous yellow rays, crafted from sugar and talent, never ceased to astonish me. These stunning decorations appeared so real that even though I knew the truth, it took all my self-control to stop from touching them, just to make sure. Every piece Marcel created in this cramped kitchen was edible. The work involved and level of precision required made my head spin.

Marcel often told me that he was in awe of my talents, but I believed his gifts far surpassed mine. These were masterpieces. I wished there was a way to display each and every one in the Smithsonian so that others, beyond those lucky enough to score a White House invitation, would be able to see and appreciate them.

When Tibor, Bucky, and I had gotten up here, Tibor had given the apron to Nate. Right now, the item sat unattended on a nearby countertop. I couldn’t imagine why they’d needed one from the main kitchen, rather than grabbing one from the supply here.

While Marcel continued to talk about the work done in his kitchen and about the members of his staff who were currently on furlough, I studied our new additions. I was having a very tough time remembering who was who.

When the four men had originally accompanied Marcel upstairs, and before Tibor had returned for the apron, I’d mentioned to Bucky that I was afraid I’d have to rely on mnemonic devices to keep the chefs straight.

“Kilian is easy,” I’d said. Short and pudgy, he was the head chef, “He’s the leader of the group. No problem there.”

“What about the rest of them?” he asked. “Can we come up with hints?” He pointed to one of the photographs. “Tibor the Terrible would work for this guy.”

“Tibor’s actually pretty easy to remember,” I said. “He’s always scowling and unpleasant. Whether or not it’s a good thing, it makes him memorable.”

“I have the hardest time with these two.” Bucky tapped the photos.

“Hector and Nate.” I read their names aloud. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Neither one of them seems particularly thrilled to be here,” he said.

“Like Terrible Tibor does?”

Bucky shrugged, but I knew what he meant. “You can tell that Kilian can’t wait to get started. And Tibor, for all his grousing, asks good questions and seems like he’s, if not happy to be here, then at least willing to give it his best.”

“These other two are clearly more reserved,” I said, finishing his thought. “Nate takes in everything, but without comment. He’s so pale, so expressionless, he practically fades into the background. I’m afraid I’ll start forgetting he’s even here.”

“I doubt that,” he said. “But you’ve given me an idea. How about ‘Neutral Nate’?”

“Fair enough. Last up is this guy. Hector,” I said. “He always seems to be smiling. What do you think?”

“Looks more like a sneer to me.” When I reacted, Bucky held both hands up. “Okay, okay, that was unkind. They aren’t exactly warm and fuzzy personalities, though.”

“It’s our job to make them feel welcome,” I said. “So, how about Happy Hector?”

“Happy Hector,” he repeated. “Not terribly imaginative, but it’ll do.”

Now in the pastry kitchen, as I surreptitiously watched our visitors, I reminded myself of the nicknames Bucky and I had bestowed on them.

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