Hail to the Chef

I’d convinced myself she’d been mistaken in her observation. But… why had I made that assumption? Agda had been the personification of precision since we’d hired her. And for some reason, I’d chosen to doubt her when it came to Yi-im.

Yi-im, a “lazy man” by Jackson’s standards, who’d maneuvered his way into the pastry kitchen, even though he’d been hired as a butler.

I shook my head and paid attention to the ceremony.

Mrs. Campbell was wearing a black skirt suit, with no festive adornment whatsoever. Although she smiled as she took up her position next to Marcel, I knew from the look in her eyes that she couldn’t wait for this tour to be over. But we’d all worked so hard, and I knew she wouldn’t want to disappoint our nation’s citizens.

I thought about the dysfunctional champagne fountain. I wondered if anyone even missed it.

My mind flashed-a quick recollection-Curly sitting under the fountain, proclaiming nothing wrong with the device.

And yet it had blown water to the ceiling when activated in this room.

Here.

I swallowed.

The gingerbread house was exactly where the champagne fountain once stood.

Marcel nodded in answer to a question Mrs. Campbell posed. I hadn’t paid attention, but forced myself to refocus.

“And this only took you two weeks?” Mrs. Campbell said. “I don’t think I could create something this beautiful in a year.”

A titter of polite laughter from the audience. Marcel nodded again. “Thank you.”

I leaned back and peeked behind the skirted table, hoping no one would notice me. In order to get the gingerbread house to light up at just the perfect time, it had been plugged in-into two separate outlets that would work together, to light up both the inside and the outside of the structure.

These were the same two outlets the fountain had been plugged into before. Two outlets. Just like the two sockets that Stanley had shown me.

Blood rushed from my face to my feet. Bucky sidled closer. “Hang in there.”

I caught sight of Gav, watching everything from a far corner of the room, and thought about the real bomb that only he and I knew about. He gave me a fu

The wires.

I twisted my head. The Blanchard gingerbread men.

“My God,” I said, finally piecing everything together.

Mrs. Campbell started toward me-toward the switch.

Frozen by wild terror, I couldn’t move. Bucky tugged at my elbow, urging me to step away.

“No,” I said to him. “I think…”

It couldn’t be. Could it? I stared at the gingerbread men again.

Bucky’s teeth were clenched. “Ollie, come on.”

Mrs. Campbell gave me an uncomfortable smile as she shoehorned her way between me and the house.

“And our theme this year wouldn’t be complete without Marcel’s masterpiece, an absolutely magnificent reproduction of the White House.” Mrs. Campbell smiled, shooting me a look of confusion. I still hadn’t moved. “I give you our holiday theme and invite you all to enjoy… ‘Together we celebrate-Welcome Home.’ ” Her finger skimmed the switch.

“No!” I shouted, pushing her away from the table. I dove beneath the skirting and grabbed at the cords-one in each hand. They pulled free from the outlet with more ease than I expected, which sent me tumbling backward, dragging the tabletop with me.

Its base upset, the gingerbread house tilted for a crazed, breathless moment, then slid away, crashing onto the floor behind me, into a million tiny crumbles.

“Sacre bleu!” Marcel screamed. “Olivia, what have you done?” I peered out from under the skirting, flipping the fabric up to see him holding his head in his hands, a disbelieving, furious expression on his face.

I sat on the floor, looking up at Mrs. Campbell, who stared down at me for a long moment, her hands over her mouth.

I was vaguely aware of incessant clicking, of hundreds of flashes, as the photographers captured my moment of shame for all posterity.

Gav had moved in, as had a crew of Secret Service perso

As reporters and others plied them with questions, I heard the repeated refrain: “We will issue a statement later. No questions now.”

I hung my head and sat under the table, with Marcel sobbing behind me, and Bucky shuffling through the broken pieces of house that littered the floor. “You sure did it this time, Ace,” he said.

I looked up. “Thanks.”

Mrs. Campbell had been whisked away by her protection detail, and I was surrounded by Secret Service who didn’t wear happy-to-see-me looks.

Gav broke through their perimeter. “What happened?”

Now that I needed to put it into words, I hesitated. What if I was wrong?

I pointed to the gingerbread men that had tumbled to the ground along with the house. Not one of them had broken. “I think there might be plastic explosives in those,” I said.

One of the agents behind Gav rolled his eyes, but Gav picked one up.

I bit my bottom lip. “And I think those two outlets have a floating neutral.”

“A what?”

I explained, realizing how ridiculous everything sounded when spoken aloud. “If there is a floating neutral, then the gingerbread house would have gotten too much voltage,” I said. “There are sparklers-little pyrotechnic things that Marcel added-but I think his assistant added more.” I licked my lips, my voice cracking under the pressure. “If the voltage would have hit… Well, I don’t know what would have happened.”

Before I’d finished my explanation, Gav had picked up one of the three Blanchard gingerbread men. His brow furrowed as he examined the back of the decoration. “I don’t see anything-”

My heart dropped. I’d be sacked for sure this time.

“Wait,” he said, turning the design around to the front. To one of the other agents, he said, “Get Morton up here.”

“What is it?” I asked.

The agents around me had relaxed their positions a little. They’d taken the weeping Marcel away. Bucky had asked to stay but had been sent back downstairs.

Gav shook his head. Within moments a burly man wearing body armor arrived. Morton. Gav handed him all three gingerbread men to examine.

“Don’t feel like standing up yet, do you?” Gav asked me.

I knew my legs wouldn’t handle it. “No.”

He sat on the floor next to me, and released the collection of agents whose very presence crowded the room more than all the reporters, visitors, and photographers had, combined.

“You’re going to get crumbs all over your suit pants,” I said.

“Hazard of the job.”

“What did I do?” I asked.

“One of two things,” he said. “You either gave the media a whopper of a story to ruin you with…”

I moaned and put my head down.

“Or you saved a lot of lives, including the First Lady’s.”

Morton spoke. “Special Agent-in-Charge?”

Gavin looked up. “Yes?”

“Clear the building.”