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“Help me get him across the hall to the doctor’s office,” Peters said to Chef Samuels.
They each took one of Diego’s arms and led him away. Marin went to follow them when she was hit in the knees by thirty pounds of preschooler and one hundred and twenty pounds of Belgian Malinois.
“Chef Marin!” Arabelle cried as she wrapped her arms around Marin’s legs. “Me and Otto were so worried. Grandma Bita said there was a fire. Was somebody playing with matches?”
Arabelle’s big caramel eyes were wide with concern. Marin gave the little girl a reassuring smile. Brushing her hand over the wild dark curls that surrounded the child’s face, Marin bit back a laugh. Everything was simple to a five-year-old.
While kitchen fires weren’t a normal occurrence, Marin, like most cooking professionals, had been through her share and knew how to handle them. But most of those had been common grease fires caused by careless staff. Marin wasn’t careless. Neither was Lillie or anyone else who worked in the White House kitchens. A faulty oven was something she hadn’t expected to ever deal with. And the speed with which the fire spread was disconcerting.
Arabelle must have sensed Marin’s unease because her arms shot up. “I think you need a hug.”
Marin lifted the girl up. Arabelle wrapped her arms and legs around her like a little monkey. Otto sat on Marin’s foot. The weight of the child in her arms and the feel of the dog against her thigh went a long way in calming Marin.
Burying her face in Marin’s neck, Arabelle squeezed tightly. “I’m so glad you didn’t die,” she whispered.
“Me, too.” Had Diego or Agent Keller not been there, she might have been trapped in the kitchen until help arrived. The thought made her heart race again.
Arabelle pulled out of the embrace, her arms looped loosely around Marin’s neck. “But now we can’t bake cookies,” she said, her bottom lip protruding out.
“Sure we can. I just need to check on Diego and change clothes. We can make cookies in the oven upstairs in the residence.” Marin looked to Bita, who’d just joined them, for confirmation.
“That oven isn’t going to blow up, too, is it?” Arabelle asked, her eyes wide again.
“No. That oven is a nice old-fashioned one without any circuits to go haywire.”
Arabelle was reassured by Marin’s words, but Bita’s face was outlined in panic. Marin opened her mouth to soothe the grandmother’s nerves, but Bita spoke first.
“Agent Keller,” Bita hissed. “What are you doing here?”
Caught off guard by Bita’s question, Marin looked over her shoulder at the agent who she’d forgotten was standing behind her. He was as rumpled and filthy as she likely was, but it did nothing to deter the rugged handsomeness he exuded. The guarded expression on his face was less than welcoming, however.
“Agent Keller is in the House for a few days on special assignment,” Secret Service Director Worcester said from behind Bita. “And if you ladies will excuse him, I need to see him right away.” He waved Agent Keller in the direction of his office.
“Bye,” Arabelle said to the agent while her grandmother’s eyes narrowed with what looked to Marin like suspicion.
Agent Keller gave Marin’s elbow a gentle squeeze. “Make sure you have the doc look you over,” he commanded quietly before following the director down the hall and into the Secret Service office.
And just like that, he was gone. Marin was mad he’d left her with yet another arrogant order. But she was even angrier at herself for not thanking the agent for potentially saving her life.
CHAPTER4
Griffin weaved between the groups of tourists admiring the cherry blossoms on the trees that lined the National Mall. He was careful to keep his jog relaxed and steady, but far enough behind the pastry chef that she didn’t notice him following her. She ran haphazardly, lacking the innate grace and rhythm of a natural runner. Instead, her pace was more like that of someone who didn’t really want to be exercising, yet forced herself to anyway. Her efforts paid off, though; the chef’s long legs were shapely and muscular in her pink running shorts. Griffin had noticed more than a few appreciative, lingering glances from males after she’d passed them by.
Since the fire the day before, Griffin had carefully gathered as much intel about the pastry chef as he could from her fellow White House staffers. The admiral had been right; she was well liked. But he knew from experience a pretty smile and a shapely body could mask all sorts of deviant intent. Until he found some other evidence, Marin Chevalier was high on his list of suspects in the White House art thefts. Yesterday’s fire in her kitchen only made his gut even more suspicious. Because that fire was no accident. It had been deliberately set.
He’d spent much of the previous evening sifting through the soot covered pastry kitchen with his buddy, Ben Seager from the Secret Service forensics lab. Ben was one of those guys who was stupid smart. And Griffin should know. He wouldn’t have passed any of his calculus classes at West Point if it weren’t for his roommate Ben’s help.
“It’s not the wiring,” Ben had concluded after only a few minutes of inspecting the oven. “My guess, based on the pattern made by the burn marks, is that there was an accelerant placed on the bottom of the oven. I won’t know for sure until I run some chemical tests, but I am sure that’s where the fire started. Probably when the oven was preheated. If it were the wiring that started this fire, there wouldn’t have been anything left of the top of the oven or the tray of sticky buns.”
They’d looked over at the charred tray where Lillie’s pastries sat like petrified wood.
“An accelerant would explain the ball of fire and the huge amount of smoke,” Griffin agreed. “Whoever planted it wanted this room—and everyone in it—incinerated because the door leading out of the kitchen was jammed and there was a splint in the window holding it closed.”
“Sounds like you were in the wrong place at the right time to be a hero,” Ben said. “Now you need to figure out who was supposed to be in that kitchen when the fire started.”
From what Griffin could uncover, the only person scheduled to use the oven in the pastry kitchen that afternoon was Chef Marin. Half the staff knew she planned to bake cookies with the president’s granddaughter. So why go to all the trouble of setting up an arson when she was the one who would be in its path? What if the agent accompanying Arabelle to the kitchen couldn’t get the door open? It was quite a risk. And a preschooler as the target made no sense.
Unless there wasn’t a target at all.
