Free Eggsecutive Orders by Julie Hyzy

thought. Too bad I didn’t have an answer.

CHAPTER 8

    I GUESS I SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED BY the headlines the next morning: MINKUS DEAD AT WHITE HOUSE, followed by an in-depth examination of his life from his boyhood home in rural Maryland to his exalted position as a Special Agent with the NSA, where he excoriated terrorists like St. George slew dragons.
    As I read, I wondered how they gathered all this information so quickly. It occurred to me that newspapers and television networks must keep fat dossiers on every public figure in anticipation of the day that figure’s obituary comes due. There was a lot here about Minkus. More than any normal person would care to know. His whole life, starting on page one and continuing on pages eight and nine. Complete with pictures.
    My mom came in from her shower, poured herself a cup of coffee, and helped herself to one of my still-warm honey-almond scones. “Why are you putting yourself through all that?” she asked, gesturing toward the newspaper.
    “Can’t help myself, I guess.” I pointed to the picture of Carl Minkus as a prodigious ten-year-old. “He was kind of cute as a little kid.” I looked at the most recent shot they published. “I wonder what happened.”
    “Good morning,” Nana said, then looking at us, asked, “What’s with all the glum faces? I figure that we should look at Ollie’s mandatory time off as a vacation. Maybe we can do something today.”
    Leave it to Nana to find the silver lining.
    She came over to stand behind me, reading the newspaper over my shoulder. “He was an angry man,” she said. “You can see it here.” She pointed to the small space between his eyes. “He made a lot of people angry, too.” As she took a seat at the table, she made a tsk ing noise. “They compared him to Joe McCarthy. He died young, too.” She fixed me with a look that said he deserved it. While I appreciated the support, I didn’t feel as though that was an appropriate outlook, particularly today.
    “He was trying to combat terrorism,” Mom said as she poured a mug of coffee for Nana. “Minkus, that is. I don’t really remember McCarthy.”
    “ Pffft . A poor excuse to invade a person’s privacy if you ask me.”
    Mom and I made eye contact. I wondered what had caused this outburst. As though I’d asked the question aloud, Nana licked her lips and leaned toward me. “Look, I’m sorry this Minkus guy is dead. Not for his sake, mind you, but because of how it’s affecting you. I saw what Joe McCarthy did to this country, and this Minkus guy was doing the same thing—all in the name of national security. He was making a name for himself by making other people’s lives miserable. That’s a hell of a thing.” She reached out to grab another section of the newspaper as she gestured to mine. “I’ll take that when you’re done.”
    “Gladly.” I started to close the paper when I caught sight of another article on page two. This one by Howard Liss in his Liss Is More daily column. “Uh-oh.”
    “What?” Mom asked.
    To me, Howard Liss always looked like an aging hippie. His picture stared up at me, his salt-and-pepper hair pulled tight into a ponytail, which draped forward over his right shoulder. Whatever that signified. He wore one hoop earring, and a cocksure grin. “Liss,” the caption read, “is always more.”
    “This guy.” I snapped my finger against his face. “He’s covering the Minkus story. And if I’m right, he’s going to blame it on some right-wing conspiracy group.”
    I was wrong. He blamed it on me.
    I’m not suggesting the president hire a professional taster, as monarchs did in the olden days to prevent assassination by poisoning, but I am asking the question: How safe is the food we serve to our administration? What real safeguards are in place? Who watches the chefs? Is our president’s security really left up to the woman who has made a name for herself by allegedly saving the president’s bacon,