As TV segment producer, had I not been clear? Apparently not. This segment of Mornings With Ladonna was about how “desk jockeys” in their cubicles could stay healthy. But seconds before airtime, when today’s guest slid breathlessly into his seat, he wore only Jockey® underwear. He twisted open the top of his male-model branded water and slid the bottle across the coffee table. On auto-pilot I took the bottle, reached over and set it on the coaster next to Ladonna, cap off. Immediately Ladonna’s face puckered, her hands went to her throat and she slumped down lifelessly. When the set’s first aid person reached her it was too late. Everyone looked daggers at me. How could I prove I hadn’t killed Ladonna? I had only moments before the police and EMTs arrived on set. The male model took a sip from his own water. I gasped but nothing happened; his branded water was fine. Clearly there was nowhere he could hide poison. He nervously smoothed his underwear for the third or fourth time, and then I knew. “Arrest him, and don’t touch his hands,” I called to police as they arrived, and they held the nearly-naked model gingerly by the arms, trying not to look at the rest of him. “Stay away from Ladonna’s water bottle,” I shouted to the EMTs as they rushed to Ladonna. “Poison gas was injected.” I swayed on my feet as the realization hit me: I’d been a breath away from dying, too.

After major holidays the White House kitchens were quiet. I constructed my floral arrangements close to the kindly cooks, feeling at home there. For the staff birthday party, I garnished glasses of herbal tea, as recommended by former First Lady Michelle Obama. Arranging blooms, I recited names in English, not Latin: coral-shaped Reef Flower, yellow Devil Flower, fuchsia Rain Flower. Jaqueline Kennedy had encouraged patriotic displays. I staked a Red Velvet rose flanked by blue Coyote bearded iris and aromatic white Bone Flower. Then added fleur-de-lys Saints Flower lilies; the new manager was from New Orleans. Though from his glances, I knew he’d never recommend me for a permanent kitchen position. Arriving, he growled, “How about fixing this bland herb tea?” I poured scented lily water into his tumbler. The White House cat eyed the water. “No, kitty,” I whispered, safely removing her. “A couple drops can be fatal.”

Blood dripped down her arm, from the shattered glass of yet another of clumsily broken bottle top. She glanced nervously back at the house. No movement inside the few lit windows. No sound. Only an assault of memories: the childhood room shared with her sister and brother, the porch where she’d first been kissed, and now, the death she had returned to mourn – and avenge. On her twelfth try, her hands were so tired the sword fell. She was tempted to sink down onto the dark earth and weep. But that wouldn’t help. She needed to master this skill. She had to be close enough to Lord Highbury to “accidentally” assassinate him, when she sabered open the magnum of Champagne at his seventieth birthday party next week. She needed justice for her father. And she needed this sommelier job. It would open up a whole new career in hospitality.