She gave a resigned nod. “Just be careful, okay?”

I WOULD HAVE PREFERRED TO TALK TO AGENTS Teska or Berland, who’d been with Mrs. Campbell when she first received news of Sean’s death, but they were again with the First Lady-wherever she was right now. I could have talked with any of the other agents assigned to the White House, but that would have involved explaining the whole story to them. No, I needed to talk with a person in the know, with the authority to get things done.

I found him downstairs in the cafeteria, alone, reading papers out of a manila folder, arms resting on the tabletop, fingers wrapped around the handle of a steaming mug. He wore gold half-moon reading glasses perched at the very end of his nose. The place was quiet, but at this time of day, and at this time of year, it wasn’t surprising. No one had time for coffee breaks. Well, hardly anyone.

“Do you have a minute, Gav?”

His gaze and eyebrows arched over the tops of his glasses, and his mouth tugged down. Dressed as always in a suit and tie, he looked totally at ease, which is more than I was at the moment.

“What can I do for you, Ollie?” he asked, holding a palm out toward the chair next to his.

I sat. Then pushed a hard breath out.

“Feeling the effects of yesterday’s scare?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, rubbing my upper arms. “But that’s not what’s bothering me this time.”

He sat back, removed the glasses, and placed them on the table next to the mug. “Talk to me.”

I dragged the note out and spread it before him on the small table. He was fully versed in the Sean situation, so there wasn’t much to explain before he read it. “I found this on my kitchen computer,” I said. “Sean Baxter left it for me.”

Gav leaned both arms on the table and held the paper far from his face. One second later, he pulled the glasses back on and started skimming.

I added, “He wrote this the day before he died.”

Gav looked up. For the first time, I noticed his eyes. Pale gray. “And you’re bringing this to me because…?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Gav continued to read. I waited.

“You believe this is proof he didn’t commit suicide?”

I nodded.

“I’d have to agree the wording doesn’t sound like it came from someone depressed enough to take his own life.”

“Can you show that to someone? Would you be able to get that into the proper hands?”

Gav sucked on his lower lip for a moment before answering. He stared at the page, rereading. “This is on your computer in the kitchen?”

I nodded again. “I almost didn’t notice it. He’d opened it under an obscure heading.”

“Obscure,” Gav repeated. “But you found it.”

“It seemed out of place.”

One corner of his mouth turned up. “Just like I told you. You have an eye for things.”

That was all nice and complimentary, but I wanted to be sure this paper did some good. “Can you get it into the proper hands?” I repeated.

He folded it into fourths and placed it into his shirt pocket. “Can anyone else access this letter?”

“Sure,” I said. “But no one else will.” I thought about Cyan and amended, “Hardly anyone. The kitchen staff only accesses recipes and other necessary documents. I handle the administrative issues. This is under my set of documents.”

“Is it password-protected?”

“No, but there’s no reason-”

“Ollie, what did I tell you about trusting people?”

“No one in the kitchen-”

He held a hand up. “Even if you’re right and no one in the kitchen means anyone any harm, how do you know that individuals from other departments aren’t accessing your files?”

I opened my mouth to argue, but realized I had nothing to say. Although I was savvy enough to manipulate recipes, files, and spreadsheets, I knew nothing about firewalls or security stuff like that. That wasn’t my area of expertise. Now that I thought about it, however, I supposed it could be possible for others to access my files when I wasn’t looking-either in person, or through the quirks of cyberspace.

He jumped into my awkward silence. “Has anyone else seen this?”

“Cyan.”

“She’s the little redhead?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

Gav seemed to weigh that information. “Probably best if you keep this to yourself. Can you trust Cyan?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then tell her to keep mum, too.”

“What will you do with the note?” I asked.

“Make copies. Show them to the officers in charge. I’ll get one to the First Lady as well.”

Any uneasiness I’d felt about sharing the letter with Gav had dissipated. My mood lightened. “Thanks,” I said.

“When I say to keep this to yourself, I really mean that.”

“I know.”

He stole a look to the right and then to the left. The only other humans in the room were two maintenance men, who were wiping down the far countertop. “Ollie,” he said, leaning forward, “if Sean was murdered-and I’m not saying he was…”

“I know.”

“Then whoever killed him won’t want this information out there.”

I thought about how similar Gav’s warnings were to Cyan’s. “I understand.”

He tapped his breast pocket. “But this gives us a place to start looking for suspects.”

I MADE MY WAY TO THE FIRST FLOOR TO TAKE a look at the decorating in progress. Most days of the year we had crowds wandering through the White House to tour the public rooms. But today and tomorrow would be quiet now that the Decorator Tour had been canceled. I wanted to steal a selfish minute to breathe in the beauty of the holiday before things got crazy again tomorrow. I wandered through the Entrance Hall and, as always, appreciated its grandeur. While the White House was permanently a show-place and forever gorgeous, this time of year the mansion sparkled with holiday spirit.

I crossed the plaque in the floor that commemorated the White House’s original construction and all the renovations that had taken place since-1792, 1817, 1902, 1952-and found it curious that most of the construction occurred in years ending in two. The building’s most recent renovation, during Truman’s tenure, had been so comprehensive that I couldn’t imagine another one occurring in my lifetime.

Just ahead, Mrs. Campbell stood in the Blue Room, her back to me. She watched as one of Kendra’s teams put the finishing touches on the tree. Hundreds of gingerbread men decorated the branches, peeking out from behind the white poinsettia blooms that sharpened the Fraser fir’s intense green.

All the president’s gingerbread men, I thought.

I wondered what the First Lady was thinking about right this minute. With all the beauty and cheer going on around her, it had to be difficult to face this happy time of year knowing Sean would not be here to celebrate. Not wishing to disturb her, I walked very softly to the adjacent Red Room.

One of the White House state reception rooms, the Red Room was always impressive, but decorated as it was today, with lighted garland surrounding the fireplace, handmade gingerbread men in every possible corner, and wreaths hanging in the tall windows, it was breathtaking. In prior years, the gingerbread house was showcased in the State Dining Room, but Mrs. Campbell had requested the change. This year, we had originally intended to use the State Dining Room for the very large, very busy reception following the Decorator Tour this afternoon. Now those plans had changed, too.

I scratched my forehead, assessing this last-minute rearrangement. The reception, rescheduled for Tuesday, including both days’ invitees, would be larger in scale than anyone had anticipated. Maybe it was a good thing the house was set up in the Red Room after all. But I did find myself curious about all the power outages. Could it be that the Red Room wasn’t electrically equipped to handle everything? Was that why we were having so much trouble?