IN MY APARTMENT, AND COMFORTABLY READY to relax, I turned on the television, hoping for some mention of Volkov, especially after Kirsten Zarzycki’s claims. My first choice was, naturally, her station, WJLA. Nothing. Nothing at all. I switched to CNN, then switched away again when no mention of Volkov, nor of Mrs. Campbell, hit the airwaves. If indeed this Kirsten was right, then news of this nature would have been splattered everywhere. Hers was an explosive allegation, and definitely too hot to let simmer.
After a half hour of channel surfing, I realized the rookie reporter had apparently gotten her signals crossed somewhere along the line. I tried searching the Internet, but found nothing there either.
As I got myself together for the next day and prioritized my tasks, I removed my splint and flexed my fingers. Felt good to have the freedom of movement. Better yet, I’d be able to really dive into food tasks in the kitchen tomorrow. I sorely missed the hands-on work I was used to.
Tomorrow was Monday, the last day the White House would be closed to the public before the big holiday unveiling on Tuesday. I set my alarm for a little earlier than usual, snuggled under my covers, and wished I could talk to Tom.
MOST MORNINGS, I WOKE TO MUSIC, BUT THE fifteen-minute lead time I’d built in the night before set my wake-up to smack in the middle of a news report. A voice like dark chocolate roused me from deep slumber. I missed the first few words, but twisted my head toward the voice when I heard him intone: “It is not known whether Ms. Zarzycki knew her attacker. Police are canvassing the area, looking for clues to this shocking murder. They have no suspects in custody but are asking witnesses in the area to step forward if they have any information to help find her killer.” The announcer continued with a hotline number to call.
I shook my head. This couldn’t be right. I must have misunderstood the name.
Staring at my clock radio, I waited for the story to repeat. But all I got was weather and traffic.
Heading into the living room, I tried to convince myself that this was all a dream. That all the events from recent days were conspiring to play with my mind. But my bedroom floor was cold to my bare feet. The apartment was chilly, and I could see the dawn of a new day outside my balcony window. Dreams were not usually so rich with such sensory stimuli. As my TV came alive I searched the room, hoping for some out-of-place vision, some signal that this was not real.
Instead, the two on-air personalities at WJLA were speaking disconsolately into the camera. One male, one female. I didn’t know these commentators well enough to know their names, but the elegant black woman spoke for both. “Our hopes and prayers go out to Kirsten’s family tonight. Although she’d just joined us here at WJLA, she was part of our family, and she will be missed.” The woman’s lips tight, she glanced to her co-anchor.
He took the cue. “Anyone with any information should call the number you see on your screen.”
I dropped back into my sofa, curling my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. I continued to stare at the TV, even after they shifted away and cut to commercial. What the hell was going on?
With a beseeching glance at my clock, I willed the hours to speed by so that I could talk with Tom. But he wouldn’t be here till Wednesday. Two long days away.
I changed the channel repeatedly until I caught the story again elsewhere. I got a few more details each time. I kept trying, looking for more, but soon I realized I had as much as I could get. There just wasn’t much information out there. Not yet.
Dropping my knees, I held my head in my hands and tried to make sense of it all.
Kirsten was dead. Attacked at home, in her apartment, she’d been shot in the head. This could be a random act of violence, I told myself. But I didn’t believe that for a minute. She’d talked about Nick Volkov being responsible for Mrs. Campbell’s father’s death. Kirsten was dead, and yet the information she claimed to have was nowhere to be found on the news.
Murder has a way of adding deadly credence to unproven conspiracies. Could Kirsten have been onto something after all?
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, RAFE JOSTLED MY shoulder. “What’s wrong, Ollie?” he asked. “You’re usually in your element when your hands are deep in dough.”
Cyan didn’t wait for me to answer. “Maybe you forgot what it was like to do the real work around here,” she said, winking.
“That’s it. You found me out.” I forced a grin. As much as I wanted to be able to join in their cheer, I couldn’t shake the news report on Kirsten’s murder.
Rafe had been working with Agda a lot over the past week and now she joined in the good-natured teasing. While she divvied up parsley, she eyed the ball of dough before me. “I do that with eyes closed,” she said, blinking hard. I expect she’d meant to wink at me. “And I do in half of the time.”
“You’re right,” I said, soberly, then smiled to take the despondency out of my words. Agda had proven herself to be a huge asset to our kitchen. In recent days, with all our setbacks, and with me being sidelined with the splint, she’d more than taken up the slack. And she’d started to join in on conversation as well. She’d even impressed Bucky. Now that he was coming around, I knew the girl was starting to be considered part of the team. It did my heart good to see how well everyone was working together. And I needed that boost right now.
I eyed the forlorn ball of dough before me. I should have had these icebox rolls done fifteen minutes ago. I was falling behind. Too much weight on my brain seemed to cause a drag on everything else. Twice today I’d tried calling the Kirsten hotline number to let them know I’d talked with her last night, but I’d gotten a busy signal each time. Maybe that was for the best. I slammed the dough onto the countertop and kneaded it hard. I’d talk with our Secret Service personnel, or with Gav. They’d know what to do.
“How soon before the guests arrive?” I asked.
Bucky shot me a weird look.
“What?” I asked.
“That’s the third time you’ve asked.”
Was it? Geez, I really needed to get my head back in the game. “Well, you know how fast things change around here,” I said to soothe my own ruffles. “And so far, we’re still serving just four people tonight, right?”
“Last I heard, no change.”
Agda perked up. “Change. Yes.”
“A change in the guest list?” My heart raced. I’d been playing one of those if/then games with myself all day: If Volkov shows up tonight, then he’s not guilty of killing Mrs. Campbell’s father, and also not involved in Kirsten Zarzycki’s murder. I could breathe easier if that were the case. But if we found out he wasn’t coming… it could mean… “What is it?” I asked. “What’s the change?”
Cyan put a hand on my arm. “Ollie, what’s wrong? You’re the one who just said we’re always dealing with changes here. What are you worried about? You’re pale again.”
Waving a floured hand, I worked up a cheery demeanor. “Nothing, nothing at all,” I said, keeping my voice light. I turned to Agda again. “What change did you hear about?”
Her hands came up to either side of her head, fingers spread, and she shook them-excited, it seemed, to be able to contribute her piece of knowledge. She spoke slowly but clearly. “Not dinner in residence. Now serving in Family Dining Room.”
That was a change. We’d been instructed to send everything upstairs, where the First Lady intended to meet privately with her colleagues. “Who told you?” I asked.
Agda smiled and nodded. Then, belatedly understanding my question, her eyebrows lifted and she nodded again. “Paul.”
I rubbed the back of my wrist against my forehead. “Why the change?” I asked, rhetorically. “I didn’t think the First Lady wanted to have anyone see the first floor until the official opening ceremony tomorrow.”