Julie Hyzy - Eggsecutive Orders

“Keep in mind, Ollie,” Tom said, and the warning was back in his tone, “Minkus might have died of natural causes.”

“Natural causes could also mean a food allergy,” I said. “And if the medical examiner proves that, then I’m out of a job for sure.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, the gentleness in his tone catching me off-guard. “With this new directive from Craig, I haven’t been very supportive recently, have I?”

“You have,” I said, remembering that he picked up my family from the airport and stood by me while I was being interrogated. “I shouldn’t be so difficult. You’re under a lot of pressure.”

“I am. And I hope you can understand that.”

“I do,” I said. And I did. Mostly.

My mom cornered me when I got off the phone to let me know that Mrs. Wentworth and Stanley had invited us out to dinner. I declined because of my meeting with Bucky and dinner plans with Suzie and Steve. Mom and Nana had, however, jumped at the chance to see more of the area, and I was glad. Knowing they were in good hands with my neighbors allowed me to feel a little less guilty leaving them.

I called Paul on the way. Although I was lucky enough to get to speak with him directly, he was running late for a meeting. When I pressed him about letting us back into the kitchen, he hedged. But that was better than saying no. Plus, they hadn’t yet canceled the Egg Roll. I took that as a positive even as I got him to promise to get back to me. But when I hung up, I realized he hadn’t said by when.

Bucky’s Bethesda home surprised me. I’d never been inside, and except for the recent trip in the limousine when the Guzy brothers dropped him off, I’d never even known exactly where he lived. This was a cheerful little neighborhood, with lots of shiny cars outside tidy front lawns. Parallel parking on residential streets was never difficult for a native Chicagoan, and I tucked my little coupe into a tight spot between two SUVs.

Although this was an old neighborhood, every town house on this street and the next sparkled like new. I’d heard that this section had undergone major renovations in the past decade. I could see the allure of living here. The trees were mature, the homes well-tended.

Bucky met me at the door, wearing a wide cotton apron tied over pale legs. It gave him the appearance of not wearing any pants, and I breathed a sigh of relief when he turned around to gesture me in and I saw his blue cutoff shorts. “It’s warm in here, sorry,” he said. “I’m working on a new quiche. Just drop your jacket anywhere.”

Sniffing the savory air, I shut the front door and followed him through the pristine living room toward the kitchen. My stomach growled as I picked up the scent of baking cheese. “How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“Eleven-no, twelve years,” he said, raising his voice so I could hear him. Whatever he was concocting in the kitchen must have needed his immediate attention, because I heard him clanking things in and out of the oven, even as I peeled off my jacket and draped it over the back of a purple couch. I ran my hand along its back pillow. Suede. Not at all what I would have imagined in Bucky’s home. “You should have seen this place back then.” He peeked his head around the corner. “Took a lot of work to get it to where it is now.”

“It’s gorgeous.” I wanted to ask if he lived alone, but I held my tongue. Bucky and I had never been friends in the sense that we discussed personal lives, and my being here suddenly seemed like an intrusion.

The living room was painted ecru, with matching crown molding and bare maple floors that shone, but didn’t squeak. Lights were on everywhere and I stopped on my way to the kitchen to admire some black-and-white photographs on the dining room wall. The shots had an Ansel Adams look to them, but the photographer’s name was listed as “B. Fields.”

“Did you do all the remodeling yourself?”

“With the hours we work at the White House? Are you kidding?” Back out of sight again, his voice was muffled. “I did do a lot, though. It’s invigorating.”

I joined him in the kitchen. What must have once been a tiny galley kitchen had been updated and expanded into a huge space that made me salivate. With gleaming pots hanging over a center island, not one, but two built-in stovetops, and two double ovens, this was the sort of kitchen I hoped to have in my own home some day. While my apartment’s small space was serviceable for my personal needs, I knew that if I ever settled down somewhere permanent, my kitchen would look just like this.

“Wow,” I said. “This is amazing.”

“We like it.”

Time to bite the bullet. “We?” I asked. “I didn’t know you were married. Are you?”

He gave a small smile. “Not yet.”

“Kids?”

This time he fixed me with a glare, though not an unfriendly one. “Do I really seem like the type who would have kids?”

“Whatever you’re making smells wonderful,” I said to change the subject.

“Good. I know we’re not going back to the White House anytime soon, and I don’t want to get rusty.”

“Bucky,” I said sincerely, “I doubt that could ever happen.”

He wiped his hands on a towel and removed his apron. “There. Everything’s good for now.” He set a timer. “Let’s go into the living room and take a look at that dossier.”

By the time the little clock dinged, we’d come up with almost nothing, dietary-wise, that we couldn’t have recited from memory.

Bucky pulled out a gently browned spinach quiche.

“Looks great,” I said, coming close to breathe in the aroma. “Smells wonderful, too.”

“Want some?” he asked.

“I’d love to, but I have dinner plans.”

His reaction was small: a slight drop of his shoulders, the quick twist of his mouth.

“But boy, it really does smell good,” I amended. “Maybe just a small piece?”

“Sure,” he said without reacting. But when he sliced a generous portion onto a piece of black and gold rimmed china and placed it in front of me, his eyes were bright with anticipation. “Let me know what you think.”

“Fancy plate,” I said.

“Why save the good stuff for special occasions?”

I forked a piece of the pie-shaped slice and pronounced it heavenly. If I hadn’t had plans to meet with Suzie and Steve in the next hour, I would have asked for seconds-even after this generous first serving. The quiche was so good, in fact, it was all I could do not to request a sample to take home to share with Mom and Nana. “You’ll have to give me this recipe,” I said.

“Already on our books.” He smiled, and it dawned on me what an unusual sight that was. “I plan to include it…” Stopping himself, the smile faded. “I should say, I planned to include it in the next set of samplings for Mrs. Campbell to taste.”

I patted his hand. He flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Well, that’s just another reason why we need to work hard at getting back into the kitchen. I don’t see anything in Minkus’s dietary profile that could have had such disastrous consequences, do you?”

Bucky had started to clean up the area and I marveled, again, at how pristine the place was. At the White House, when we were in the midst of preparing a state dinner, or other big event, the kitchen got a little cluttered. Although we had help and we cleaned up as we worked-there really was no way around that-at home I was not quite so fastidious. Bucky, however, was.

“You know,” I said, “we read over the rest of his dossier but we really didn’t digest it.”

He half turned. “What do you mean?”

“Here, for instance.” I pointed. “Minkus was appointed to his position during the prior administration. He worked hard to make a name for himself as a terrorist fighter. But he also held a position as a counterintelligence liaison to China.”