Eggsecutive Orders

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Thanks for helping out with Suzie and Steve earlier. They’re having me over for di

“Nice. I do all the work, you get the reward.”

“Want to come with?”

“Some other time.” He made a sound-like he was sucking his bottom lip. “Until this investigation is complete, it’s a good idea if you and I aren’t seen out together.”

That stung, too. Even more than the Internet postings had. “I guess you’re right.”

“Try not to talk about the case with your SizzleMaster friends, okay?”

“Pretty hard to do after reporters showed up on their front lawn.”

He was silent again. “Just try to keep a low profile.”

“I did just think of something.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I know we’re under suspicion, and so are Suzie and Steve. But what about the other guests at di

Tom’s long, deep breath wasn’t quite as a

“What about-”

“Alicia Parker?” He laughed. “She’s too big for even you to touch, Ollie. Alicia Parker is a cabinet member. I’m sure there are people looking into her background, but this is one hot wire you don’t want to even get near. Trust me.”

He was right about that. I’d only met Secretary Parker in passing once or twice, although I’d seen her interviewed on TV fairly often. She came across as strong-minded, honest, and brave. “Yeah,” I agreed. “And anyway, she strikes me as the type who-if she wanted you dead-would just come straight up and shoot you. I don’t see her sneaking poison into an eggplant entrée.”

“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 di

I called Paul on the way. Although I was lucky enough to get to speak with him directly, he was ru

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 di

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?”