“They should be.” I shrugged. “But I have no idea.”
Paul cleared his throat. “The investigators need to talk with Ollie.”
Tom shepherded us toward the pantry, where I’d expected it to be quiet. Instead, there were paper-booted, latex-gloved technicians taking apart every inch of my workspace. They were covered, head to toe, in Tyvek jumpsuits and wore masks over their faces and shower caps over their heads. I could only imagine that the scene downstairs in my kitchen was worse. I groaned.
“It’s standard operating procedure, Ollie,” Tom said. “They have to examine everything.”
We both knew that before this episode was over, my kitchens would be turned inside out and upside down. Which was exactly the state of my stomach at the moment.
The door between the pantry and the Family Dining Room had been propped open and I could see more technicians in full protective gear. President Campbell stood at the doorway leading to the stairway and Usher’s Room. He was having an intense conversation with Agent Craig Sanderson.
At that moment, the president looked up and made eye contact with me. His mouth was set in a grim line and I thought I could detect disappointment, even across the crowded room. I was sorry to see it there, even if I had done nothing to cause it. He nodded in acknowledgment, then turned slightly away from me, to continue his conversation.
“What is going on?” I asked.
Paul urged me back into the center of the pantry, then called for quiet. The busy technicians stopped what they were doing and turned to face us. I was glad to have Tom behind me.
“This is Executive Chef Olivia Paras,” Paul said in a clear voice. “If you have any questions, she will be available in the Library.”
From behind their obscuring getups, I could make out that three of the technicians were male, two female. One of the men wore glasses behind his safety goggles. Why were they dressed so protectively? Did they think Minkus died as a result of an airborne contaminant? If so, then wouldn’t the other guests have been affected? Wouldn’t we all be at risk? I wanted to get out of this room with its suddenly close quarters and heavy, stale air.
“You’ll be happy to cooperate, right, Ollie?” Paul said, nudging me forward.
“Yes,” I said. I caught his hint and spoke assertively to the group. “I know you have a job to do and I’m here to help in any way I can. My staff and I are at your service.”
Paul nodded, then moved us back out the door, through the State Dining Room, where activity had grown to fever pitch. I wanted to stop, but Tom and Paul kept moving me forward.
“We’ve got to get you out of here,” Tom said under his breath. “They’ve got Metropolitan Police here and we can’t be sure of leaks.”
“Leaks?” I asked, as the two men escorted me to the stairs adjacent to the East Room. “But what could be leaked?”
“That’s the thing you learn in the world of politics,” Paul said. “You never want to give out information you don’t need to share. Anything that can be misconstrued, usually is.”
I’d expected our path to take us to the Library, where Tom had told Guzy to take Cyan and Bucky, but as we reached the bottom of the stairs we walked across the hall to the China Room.
The door opened as we approached. The third agent from this morning, Agent Snyabar, was there, as were two Metropolitan Police detectives who proffered their badges for my inspection. A male/female team, their names were Fielding and Wallerton. Tom and Paul escorted me in and led me to one of the wing chairs. I declined, not wanting to be the only seated person.
Just then, the door opened and Craig Sanderson came in. Craig was a tall agent, handsome and crisp. As Tom’s supervisor, he was aware of our relationship, but had enough regard for Tom that he preferred to remain “officially” uninformed.
Craig and I were cordial to one another. There were times his Appalachian drawl sent shivers up my spine. This was one of them. “Ms. Paras,” he said slowly. “Why am I not surprised to discover your involvement in this terrible tragedy?”
“Hi Craig,” I said, striving for informal. The less formal, the less intense our conversation would be. At least, that was what I hoped.
“Please, have a seat, Ms. Paras.”
This time, I sat.
Craig took the wing chair opposite mine and the two detectives came around to flank him. They both held open small notebooks-a lot like the one Craig now held poised, waiting for me to speak. But what could I possibly say?
Tom and Paul stood on either side of my wing chair, and I twitched against the nubby fabric. I didn’t want to stain the armrests, so I wiped both hands on the front of my slacks. I’d thrown on white canvas pants, a white T-shirt, and a light gray hoodie this morning. Although the day was cool, I was itching to remove my sweatshirt. The fireplace next to me wasn’t burning, but I felt what it was like to sit in the hot seat.
“Agent Brewster talked with me this morning,” I said to break the silence. Too late, I remembered the old adage “He who speaks first, loses.”
Craig arched his brows. “And what did Agent Brewster have to say?”
“Not much,” I said, wondering why I’d even brought it up. “He seems to think my kitchen-or I-had something to do with Agent Minkus’s death.”
“Did you?”
I blinked. “Of course not.”
Craig’s mouth twisted sideways. He wrote nothing, but the two detectives scribbled furiously. The forty-something woman-Wallerton-was tall and thin to the point of emaciation. I’d characterize her features as skeletal, and her wispy blonde hair did nothing to contradict that observation. The other detective, Fielding, was older. He had the look of a man who’d seen a lot in his day, but rather than fit the stereotype of paunchy veteran detective, he was trim and good-looking, with dark hair that was just beginning to go gray at the temples. Neither of them smiled.
Craig eased back in his seat, slightly. “We have a preliminary report from the medical examiner,” he said.
I held my breath. “Already?”
Dumb question. This was the White House. Everything was done expeditiously. When something was needed, all stops were pulled out until it was accomplished.
“What did they say?” I asked, inching forward. “Do they think it was a heart attack?”
Craig’s mouth turned down in a way that made my own heart drop. “It was not a myocardial infarction.”
I swallowed.
The two detectives glanced up at me, then continued to write.
“What was it?” I asked.
“We expect to have more information within a day or two.”
I wanted to scream, “Just tell me!” but I pulled my hands together on my lap and clasped my fingers, hard. “My kitchen is clear, right?”
Craig did that thing with his mouth again. When he fixed me with a stare, I felt my insides turn to jelly. Hot, slippery jelly. Like the kind Polish bakers fill their paczki with every Fat Tuesday. “No,” he said.
My voice came out in a whisper. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” I felt a hand on my shoulder. I didn’t know if it was Paul’s or Tom’s. My vision telescoped, focusing solely on Craig’s angry stare, and after the whoosh in my head silenced, all I could hear were pens scraping against notepaper.
“The medical examiner believes that Carl Minkus ingested something at dinner that killed him.”
I sucked in a gasp. “ ‘Ingested something that killed him’?” I repeated the words, but my brain couldn’t accept the meaning.
Craig continued. “The medical examiner is doing very in-depth toxicology screenings today. They’re waiting on results, but we won’t have answers for a while.”
I shook my head. This wasn’t happening. “But that doesn’t mean it was something he ate… something we served. Couldn’t he have eaten something at lunch that did this?”