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“Is there a problem Mr. Harris?”
“This guy tried to jump through the security gate behind me and follow me onto the elevator.”
Mr. Harris was one of the Dupont’s more snobbish residents, but the rules were the rules, guests had to sign in before going upstairs. Arnold gestured to the interloper who was dressed in a delivery man’s garb to meet him at the concierge desk.
“Who are you here to see?” Arnold asked. He looked up from the directory sheet when the guy didn’t immediately answer. The poor man probably didn’t speak English. The city was filled with immigrants trying to eke out a living working at any job they could get without having fluency in the language.
Arnold noticed the guy was carrying a box with him. “You have a package to deliver?” he asked, careful to speak slowly and annunciate the words.
The man’s black ball cap nodded up and down.
“Well then, you’ve come to the right place,” Arnold said jovially. “You didn’t need to go upstairs at all. Residents pick up their packages right here at the desk. Just leave it with me. I’ll get it to”—he glanced at the package—“there’s no name on there. Who’s it going to?”
“The chef,” the guy mumbled, keeping his head dipped toward the counter. “In the penthouse.”
The doorman shook his head in aggravation. There was no problem with the delivery guy’s English, apparently. Arnold went to take the package from him, but the delivery man’s grip on it was firm. And the dope was wearing leather gloves. In April. Not an immigrant then, just a run-of-the-mill weirdo.
“If you leave it with me, I’ll make sure that Chef Chevalier gets it,” Arnold said before tugging on the box again.
“Today,” the delivery guy insisted, his hold on the package still strong.
“Sure thing, buddy.” Arnold was finally able to take the box from the guy’s grasp. “She’ll get it as soon as she walks through those doors.”
The other man nodded again.
“No need for you to worry about it being stolen or whatnot because those cameras behind me record everything.” Arnold pointed over his shoulder, his chest puffed up with pride. “Between you and me, this is a safe place with an honest staff. We don’t need Big Brother to keep it that way. But try telling that to management.”
The delivery guy did look up then. When his icy blue eyes met Arnold’s warm brown ones, the doorman felt the breath freeze in his lungs. And then the guy was gone.
“Weirdo,” Arnold murmured to himself as he carefully placed Chef Marin’s package on the shelf behind him.
CHAPTER7
Diego kept glancing at his cell phone while he and Marin put the finishing touches on the last few centerpieces.
“If you need to be somewhere, I can handle the rest of this,” Marin told him. “You did beat me in by an hour this morning.”
“I’m good.”
His tone told Marin he wasn’t good, but she let it go. The sous chef had been edgy and distracted since the fire. Of course, the frenetic pace they were working under didn’t help anyone’s disposition.
Marin carefully set the nest of marzipan flowers and sugar hydrangeas onto a cart. “These are the last three. Once we have finished here, you can take them down to the refrigerator room and then skedaddle. I don’t want to see you back here until six a.m. on Monday.”
“We still have to make the pies for the Manning’s party tomorrow. I don’t know why they couldn’t just stay up at Camp David for Easter dinner,” Diego grumbled.
“I’ll take care of those,” Marin said.
The First Family would arrive midmorning tomorrow to attend Easter services at St. John’s. Afterward, they were hosting dinner for twenty friends and family. Marin had already volunteered to work in the main kitchen so the culinary staff with families could have the holiday off. Tonight, she would make the desserts. Unlike the stressful task of creating delicate, edible artwork, baking was relaxing. She was looking forward to a quiet night of losing herself in her craft, concocting delicious treats for the Mannings and their guests.
She was also looking forward to her “date” with Griffin. And, as much as she loved, Diego, she wasn’t sure she wanted him chaperoning their dinner here in the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later, Diego was carefully wheeling the cart to the service elevator.
“G’night, Boss,” he called over his shoulder.
“See you Monday, Diego.”
Marin quickly tidied up the kitchen in anticipation of Griffin’s arrival. He hadn’t said what time he was bringing dinner, but when she looked up from the list she was creating of ingredients she needed to bring up from the main kitchen, Griffin was casually leaning a shoulder against the wall, quietly studying her.
