Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

The second book in the White House Chef Mystery series, 2008

I wish I could cook as well as Ollie does, because then I would invite everyone over for a lavish dinner to express my heartfelt gratitude.

Since I can’t do that, my sincere thanks here will have to suffice:

To the wonderful people at Berkley Prime Crime, especially my editor, Natalee Rosenstein; Michelle Vega; Catherine Milne; and Erica Rose. I hope you know how much I appreciate your guidance, help, and support. And to the great folks at Tekno Books: Marty Greenberg, John Helfers, and Denise Little, without whom Ollie would never exist.

When I asked my brother, Paul, how to rig up an electrical charge strong enough to kill a person and possibly destroy the White House, he was delighted to help. He even created a mock-up and patiently explained how to make it work. In the book, Stanley does the same for Ollie. Any errors in that scene, or others, are mine alone.

I read and reread former White House chef Walter Scheib’s book, White House Chef , but there’s no substitute for talking with someone who’s actually been there. I owe a special debt of gratitude to this kind and gracious man who answered my questions about room locations, staff meetings, and certain protocols. Again, any errors are mine.

Thanks to the Southland Scribes, Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Thriller Writers of America for camaraderie and support, and to readers who e-mail to tell me what they think about the newest book. Means a lot to me.

Special thanks to my writing partner, Michael A. Black, whose wise counsel keeps me going and who always has my back.

And, as always, to my family: Curt, Robyn, Sara, and Biz. You guys are the best.

I STOPPED SHORT AT THE DOORWAY TO THE White House solarium. I knew better than to interrupt the First Lady when she was in such deep discussion with her social secretary and the assistant usher. Particularly today. But when Mrs. Campbell saw me, she beckoned me into the top-floor room.

“Ollie, thank goodness,” she said, silencing her two staff members. “Talk to Sean, would you? Persuade him to come to Thanksgiving dinner.”

Seated apart from Mrs. Campbell’s conference, across the expansive room-I’d missed him at first glance-Sean Baxter sprang to his feet. With his sandy blonde hair and boy-next-door good looks, he could have passed for Matt Damon’s younger brother. “Hey,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

The two staffers had stopped talking long enough to acknowledge my presence with polite smiles. As soon as Sean stood, however, they resumed peppering the First Lady with their requests.

“Mrs. Campbell,” the social secretary said, her voice strained, “if we don’t confirm these last-minute updates today, the final batch of Christmas cards won’t be sent until next week.”

The assistant usher added, “The press will skewer us for slighting these folks.”

Mrs. Campbell nodded. “Then let’s not wait a moment longer. How many-”

Sudden, hard footfalls above us halted all conversation. One breathless instant later, a flash-like black lightning-streaked past the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Though distorted by the sheer curtains, the silhouette was clear. A man. Carrying a high-powered rifle.

Sprinting along the adjacent promenade, the shadow moved at hyper-speed. I barely had time to process his appearance when the gunman burst through the solarium’s outside door, ordering us all into the central hall.

“Move!” he shouted, darting around us to take the point position at the doorway. “Come on!”

His all-black garb and bulletproof vest didn’t scare me. Neither did the gun.

But the look on his face sent prickles of panic tingling down the back of my neck. This was Dennis, one of our rooftop snipers. His words were terse. “Follow me.”

The First Lady stared at him. “But-”

“No time,” he said. “Secret Service agents are on their way up. We have to get you out of here. Now.”

We had been through drills before, so we knew what to do-but the peculiar energy wrapped around this situation made everything seem louder, brighter, scarier. Dennis tensed. He’d slung the rifle onto his back and now gripped a semiautomatic pistol in one hand, and another weaponlike object I didn’t recognize in the other. His head twisted side to side as he walked, the picture of stealth. “Stay close,” he whispered as he stopped to peer around the corner. “Stay low.”

Two suited Secret Service agents joined us in the central hall, using hand signals to shepherd us toward the stairway nearest the music room. Secret Service agents didn’t generally accompany the First Family into the residence. That must be why Dennis had been tagged for getting us out. As one of the many snipers on the rooftop, he was closer to the First Lady’s position than an agent would be.

The moment we entered the stairway, Dennis ran back the way we’d come. The five of us from the solarium tried to be quiet, but our shoes clattered down the steps, just loud enough to mask the thunderous pounding of my heart. I watched our escorts, knowing better than to question, knowing better than to say a word. The two suited men spoke into their hands in low, brusque tones as we made our way to the bottom level of the East Wing. The First Lady, Sean, and I were herded by Agent Kevin Martin. The other two were taken by Agent Klein.

I knew where we were headed. The bunker.

This was no drill.

I started back toward the kitchen. “My staff,” I said. As the White House executive chef, the safety of my people was of paramount importance to me.

Agent Martin shook his head. “We’ve got your people covered, Ollie,” he said, tension making his blue eyes darken.

He hustled us down, deeper into the fortresslike bunker. The enormous tubelike structure, built back when Franklin Delano Roosevelt was president, was purportedly designed to withstand a nuclear blast. Officially known as the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, it had several meeting rooms and conference areas outfitted with televisions, telephones, and communications systems. Sleeping rooms, too. Agent Martin stopped us in front of the first one on the right.

“Get in there. We’ll come back when it’s clear.”

I couldn’t let it go. “Where’s my staff now?”

Before he could answer, Mrs. Campbell interrupted. “Where’s my husband? Is he safe?”

“He’s been evacuated.”

“Is he all right?”

Martin nodded. “Please remain here until you’re given the all-clear.”

“But what-”

“I’m not at liberty to-”

“Agent Martin,” Mrs. Campbell said with more than a little snap. “You will tell me exactly where my husband is. And exactly what’s going on.”

He pursed his lips, shooting a derisive look at Sean. “Only staff members…”

“You can talk in front of Sean,” Mrs. Campbell said. “He’s family. Now, where’s my husband?”

Agent Martin’s jaw flexed. One of our more handsome Secret Service agents, the man was blessed with Irish good looks and rigid determination. With obvious reluctance, he said, “Marine One evacuated the president to Camp David.” He started to move away, but Mrs. Campbell stepped forward, laying her hand on his arm.