Read Online State of the Onion by Julie Hyzy - Free Book Online Page A

but stopped himself.
    â€œSince when do we report to him?” I asked.
    â€œI’ll make an appointment to talk with Paul,” Henry said. “We’ll get this settled.”
    I picked up a plate, hefted it in my hands, and eyed the doorway. “I think I’d like to settle this myself,” I said, “with a well-aimed smash over the man’s head.”
    â€œRelax, my dear,” Henry said. “With a disposition like that of Peter Everett Sargeant III , it is doubtful there will ever be a Fourth .”

CHAPTER 6
    NAVEEN’S NAME SIMMERED ON THE BACK burner of my brain, bubbling around and keeping me from devoting my complete attention to the tasks at hand. After we finished lunch preparations and the waitstaff served it, we started in on the thousand other items that required attention. I went to the computer screen, knowing I needed to put the finishing touches on the ladies-only luncheon Mrs. Campbell would host the following week.
    My alert program reminded me to contact our sommelier. He was prepared for tonight, but he and I needed to chat further about the upcoming luncheon.
    Next week we’d be serving prosciutto and melon, followed by Chicken Maryland. Mrs. Campbell had requested a menu similar to one Mrs. Johnson had served during her tenure as First Lady. I thought about that now as I stared at the screen.
    Security had changed a lot over the years. Before I was born, visitors lined up outside for White House tours, and they were granted free access most mornings each week. Today visitors were required to plan in advance. Submit official requests, provide social security numbers.
    I sighed.
    Naveen was an example of why the rules had changed. And I’d been the one to stop his unauthorized intrusion. Why didn’t I feel better about that?
    Henry meandered by to assure me that he’d look into Peter Everett Sargeant’s dictum. Little did he know that it wasn’t the supercilious little man who’d set me off-kilter—well, not entirely—but the dark intruder from yesterday’s skirmish. I wished I could confide in Henry, but he’d be the first to remind me that my top duty was to the president.
    Tonight, one of the Campbells’ adult children would be present at dinner, and we’d already planned the family favorite—ultra thin–crust pizza. Loaded with artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes, and Italian sausage delivered from Chicago, it was one of our specialties. Cyan was kneading dough even as I tapped at the keyboard.
    Pizza was easy. But planning the next several weeks was more of a challenge. It took the remainder of the day to work out logistics for seven “intimate” dinners of less than ten guests each, four larger affairs with guest lists topping twenty, and three luncheons of varying sizes. I studied diet dossiers, made notes on allergies, and juggled entrée, accompaniment, and dessert choices, until the arrangements lined up perfectly like a culinary version of a Rubik’s cube.
    Twilight kept me company after work as I trudged three blocks to the McPherson Square Metro station. I used the time to check my voice mail. Hearing Tom’s voice cheered me at first, but his message—he’d be tied up but would try to call later—chased away my hopes for a cozy evening. He and I hadn’t parted on the most upbeat of terms last night and I was eager to see him so that we could make things right.
    The stations and the trains themselves were lonely at night. We pulled into Farragut West and I stared out the window—this time of day I rarely had trouble getting a window seat. At the stop, my attention was captured by two Metro Transit Police officers talking with a Middle Eastern man on the platform. He resembled Naveen. Not enough for me to believe it was the same man, of course, but enough for yesterday’s incident to jump once again to the forefront of my thoughts.
    The transit cops seemed