lips-only smile. “Yes, we are aware of that.”
Detective Wallerton returned, and together with Detective Fielding and Craig they questioned me about everything that went on in the kitchen yesterday. I remembered almost every detail, but told them I needed to consult my files for a few of the ingredients used to prepare Mr. Minkus’s meal. After listening to my exhaustive recitation and taking plenty of notes, the detectives seemed satisfied with my answers.
Craig surprised us all by turning his attention to Tom. “Agent MacKenzie, how long have you been on duty?” Before Tom could answer, Craig continued, “You have been here for over twenty-four hours. More than thirty, in fact. Am I correct?”
Tom nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Go home, Agent.”
Tom started to argue that as a ranking Secret Service agent during a crisis, his place was at the White House, but Craig cut him off. “You are relieved. Get some sleep. And don’t come back until you do.”
Tom left without further comment, but I knew how disappointed he must be. I was disappointed as well. His silent presence had been a comfort.
By the time they were done asking me everything fourteen times each, I was sticky and clammy and wished I could race home and shower. Then I remembered Mom and Nana.
I glanced at my watch. Eight thirty. I’d never make it to Dulles in twenty minutes. Even if I were cleared to leave right now.
“Are we keeping you from something?” Craig asked.
Drained from the nonstop queries, I didn’t even bother to explain. “No,” I said, hoping that when I wasn’t there to meet them, my mother didn’t hustle Nana on the next flight back to Chicago.
Finally dismissed, I was led to the door. “So who will take care of the First Family’s meals?” I asked.
Craig sniffed. “Several of our agents have agreed to take on that responsibility. They are working out of the second floor kitchen and the Mess.”
My face must have telegraphed my disbelief, because he added, “Some of our agents are quite talented in the culinary arts. One of them was a full-time cook in college. He knows what he’s doing.”
I closed my eyes. This was worse than I thought. “What about us?” I asked. “Should I just stay home and twiddle my thumbs until you guys give me the all-clear?”
Craig’s face remained impassive. “Do whatever you like, Ms. Paras,” he said. “But plan on doing it here. You aren’t going home anytime soon.”
CHAPTER 6
WHEN I GOT TO THE LIBRARY, BUCKY AND CYAN were waiting for me. Bucky stood up. “How long do we have to stay here? We’ve got work to do.”
“No,” I said, “we don’t.”
Cyan opened her mouth to question, but I held up a hand. “We’re out of the kitchen until further notice.”
“What?”
“Here’s where we stand,” I said, lowering myself into the wooden armchair Bucky had just vacated. “Until it can be absolutely proven that Carl Minkus didn’t die as a result of our kitchen’s negligence, we are forbidden to prepare food in the White House.”
Bucky paced. “We couldn’t have done anything. I mean . . . there’s no way. We read his dietary requirements.” He dragged the back of his hand against his forehead. When he turned to me, his face was pale and his voice cracked. “This has never happened before.”
I stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. Surprisingly, he didn’t move away. “We did nothing wrong.”
Bucky shook his head. “This is terrible.”
For the first time, I actually let the truth sink in. A man was dead, possibly as a result of something we’d fed him. Although we’d followed every protocol, the fact remained that our kitchen could be guilty of negligence. I’d been adamant about our innocence, but what if we had been negligent? Then Carl Minkus was dead prematurely. And, as executive chef, blame fell squarely on me.
Bucky practically choked his next words out. “Did you think about botulism?”
I was about to answer when he pushed me
Donald Luskin, Andrew Greta