Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

“The floating neutral?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Looks like Manny, or Vince-or both of them-rigged one up to set those outlets to blow 240.” He nodded toward the wall.

He didn’t admit that he should have listened to me earlier, but regret radiated off him like waves of heat. And that was good enough for me.

“They took off,” said Gav from the back of the room. “We’re picking them up now for questioning.”

“Yi-im,” I said suddenly.

“We’re after him, too.”

MARCEL WAS STILL MOURNING HIS LOST GINGERBREAD house the next day. “There are not even photos of it other than those I took myself,” he said. “All the photographers waited until the lighting ceremony.” He heaved a great sigh. “So much work. All lost.”

We stood in the kitchen, having just finished preparing breakfast for the president and First Lady. Other than the fact that the upstairs was still being processed as a crime scene, life was back to normal. After the excitement yesterday, the president had come home to be with his wife. Tom had come back last night, too-in fact he’d picked me up inside the grounds, sparing me having to run the gauntlet of reporters that swarmed the place. Thank goodness. I’d needed to vent and he was only too willing to listen.

“There are plenty of pictures of Ollie in today’s paper,” Cyan said, pushing the front page across the countertop.

I’d seen them. Crisp color pictures of me sitting under a table amid gingerbread detritus graced the first page, under the headline “That’s the Way the Cookie Crumbles.” I turned away, groaning. “Can’t we just forget yesterday ever happened?”

“The ace executive chef does it again,” Bucky said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Olivia Paras, always in the middle of everything.”

“Back off, Buckaroo,” Cyan said. “She saved your life. All of ours, probably.”

His mouth puckered and he glanced at Cyan, before turning to me. “I guess I never thanked you, did I?” He lifted his chin. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” I said, wanting to keep the mood light. “All in a day’s work.”

“You sound like James Bond,” Cyan said. “Or… Jane Bond!”

Agda’s eyes lit up, as she joined in on the banter. “Maybe she spy!”

Rafe nodded. “A Russian spy!”

“Russians are out,” I said, laughing. “They’re not the bad guys anymore.”

Bucky wasn’t being particularly unpleasant, but his words had more of a bite than anyone else’s when he asked, “I still don’t get it. How do you always get in the middle of all the intrigue around here?”

“Bad luck, I guess.”

Gav leaned in the doorway. “Or good luck, depending on how you want to look at it.” He greeted the staff and reminded them that even though recent events had thrown the schedule off, security classes would resume the next day. To me, he said, “Do you have a minute?”

I followed him to the China Room, thinking sadly about Marcel’s weeks of planning and preparation and of all the time he’d spent in here creating his now-trashed masterpiece.

Gav closed the door and motioned for me to sit in one of the upholstered chairs. “There will be a press conference later this morning.”

“I’m not going to have to say anything, am I?”

He sat across from me, shaking his head, elbows on his knees as he studied the floor. The stress of the job obviously took its toll. He seemed to have aged since I’d met him. “No. In fact we’d prefer that you say nothing.”

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

He sat back. “You probably know it all anyway.”

“I don’t. Really. I’ve just been guessing. Trying to fill in the blanks.”

One eye narrowed. “I told you I believed in your instincts. And I’m glad you trusted your gut.” Leaning forward again, but this time staring at me, he continued. “I’ll tell you what I can. Fair enough?”

I nodded.

“The Blanchard gingerbread men were outfitted with a sophisticated type of explosive,” he said slowly. “We haven’t seen much of this stuff because it’s so new. It’s very malleable.” He pantomimed, rubbing his thumbs and forefingers together. “Just like C-4, but this stuff is so advanced, they were able to use it as decoration on the cookies and not have anyone notice. Plus, it’s stable enough for transport. Powerful stuff. Had it been ignited by a straight 120 volt, it would’ve been bad.” He stared at me. “Very bad. It probably would have taken out everyone within ten feet of the explosion.”

I didn’t know if he was exaggerating to make me feel better, but I actually felt a little bit worse. Shivering, I tried hard not to imagine what might have happened if Mrs. Campbell had flipped that switch.

Gav must have read my mind because he added, “With the additional surge from the floating neutral, those three gingerbread men would have taken out the back half of the White House.”

“Oh, God.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“And Blanchard arranged everything? But how and why? And what about Sean?”

Gav held up a hand. “Slow down. We’ve got Blanchard in custody. Your electrician Manny Fortunato, too. He rigged everything from the inside.”

“But it was Blanchard behind it all?”

“Not according to Blanchard. He’s trying to point the finger at his overzealous assistant.”

“Bindy?”

Gav nodded. “Said she came up with all this on her own.”

“No way.”

With a shrug, Gav continued. “Blanchard claims he knew nothing about any of this. He’s running real hard, trying to distance himself from the girl. Maintains he’s completely innocent and seems just a little too eager to dump all the blame on her.”

“What about her?”

For the first time all day, Gav smiled. “She’s giving her statement now. Blanchard doesn’t know, but she rolled right over now that he’s pointing the finger at her. Oldest story in the book. Young, impressionable woman taken in by a powerful man. She was in it for love. He was in it for power.” Gav added, “She’s giving up every little detail in the hopes of getting off easy.”

“Will she?”

“She was involved in trying to blow up the White House. What do you think?”

I grimaced. “What about Sean?”

Gav sobered again. “Blanchard again.”

I sucked in a breath.

“Your friend Kirsten…” Gav began.

“I only met her once.”

He dismissed my correction. “She was heading down the wrong path, but she was close. Turns out Sean was killed using Volkov’s gun.”

“What?”

“Crime scene investigators were able to prove that Sean didn’t pull the trigger. That the note was planted, making the death a homicide. But.” He bit the corner of his mouth. “The gun’s serial number was mutilated. Not completely. Just enough to slow down its identification. When we figured it out, we realized the gun belonged to Volkov. He was brought in for questioning.”

“That’s probably what Kirsten heard about.”

“Could be,” he said. “Volkov admitted to it being his, but was as surprised as we were to discover how it had been used. He couldn’t imagine how it could have gotten out of his house-until yesterday. He called the Metropolitan Police because he remembered that the last time he’d seen it, he’d been showing it to Blanchard.” Gav placed a finger over his lips. “We asked him to keep that to himself, and told him that we’d be in touch.”

“So it looks like Blanchard killed Sean and was trying to frame Volkov for it?”

“That’s the premise we’re working under.” Gav licked his lips. “But he didn’t do the messy work himself. According to Bindy there were a couple of other people involved.”