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Legal stuff: The stories posted are not released from copyright, under creative commons or any other licensing procedure. They are not for reproduction elsewhere--this includes free download sites--with the exception of small excerpts for the purpose of linking or commentary and other purposes covered under fair use.

Okay, I can't be more clear than that. If you like the stories, then post a link to them. I love links!

THANK YOU for respecting this. -- P.N. Elrod

_____________________________________

Izzy's Shoe-In

by P.N. Elrod

Originally published in White House Pet Detectives Ed. Carole Nelson Douglas, Cumberland House 2002

At five-foot-nothing in her flats, Izzy DeLeon was the tallest of the troop of Girl Scouts milling around her. At twenty-one, she was the oldest by ten years, but trusted that her green uniform would provide all the cover required for her invasion of the White House. There was safety in numbers, and she counted four full troops gathered by the iron gates awaiting admittance to the grounds. In a hundred girls the chances of her being spotted as the cuckoo in the nest were small—if she kept moving.

It worked well; she circulated unobtrusively until the adults called for order and they smartly marched toward the sweeping curved steps to the South Portico. There they stood under the big awnings. Scant protection against the summer sun, Izzy felt the oppressive heat sucking the energy from her. The others were as lively as birds.

A gap-toothed girl of eleven gave Izzy a curious stare. For an instant she wondered if she’d missed a spot when scrubbing her face clean of makeup. Would a lingering hint of powder or lip rouge betray her?

The girl said, “That’s a lot of badges.”

Izzy glanced down at her shoulder sash, which was covered with a number of merit badges, all of which held little meaning to her. Where she’d grown up you didn’t earn such things, you learned those skills to survive. “I guess so,” she admitted, pitching her voice high.

“You got a cold?” the girl asked sharply. The troops were here to sing patriotic songs to the president and first lady. Any Scout with a cold would be unwelcome in the chorus.

Shaking her head vehemently, Izzy then shrugged. “I talk funny, but sing just fine. My mom told me.”

The girl did not look convinced and edged away. Good. The less contact the better. Izzy had flattened her chest with bandaging, thrust her size seven feet into size six shoes, and bitten her nails down to look right for the part. The uniform offered perfect protection from the adults, but not kids. One observant little girl could raise the alarm and bring an arrest, and Izzy doubted her editor would be sympathetic enough to bail her out.

Stick to fashion stories, Isabelle. You’re female, write female-stuff, he’d say, then send her off to a flower show or some other dullness.

Teeth grinding, she dutifully cranked out copy since that was her job, but craved more exciting, germane, interesting things to write. She’d not fought her way out of the lazy swamps of Florida, earned a scholarship, and worked hand over fist for a journalism degree merely to make a living. Izzy planned to be more than a reporter; she would be a world-famous writer, destined for honors, applause, and the respect of her peers...if she could just get away from daffodil festivals.

The only way to prove herself worthy of an assignment with real meat to it was to go hunting for one. But strangely, in the heart of Washington, D.C., in the swirl of politics and the passionate vituperations resulting from the clash of one party against another, that proved frustratingly difficult. Requests to interview a senator or congressman always landed her in a parlor with their wives, sipping tea. While she managed to make enough copy to please her editor, those encounters had no national importance. The few wives who would speak to her were concerned with matters like raising children in the public eye or promoting their favorite charity and, in one case, sharing a special fudge recipe. Laudable, but not what Izzy wanted.

But when Herbert Hoover took office, she mounted a more active campaign on the White House itself. Even if she was fobbed off to Mrs. Hoover, Izzy would count that as a victory. Lou Henry Hoover was extremely well-educated and had traveled around the world with her engineer husband. She spoke five languages fluently, had received medals from other countries for her charity work, survived the Boxer Rebellion—surely she would have tales to share with the American public with real weight to them.

But after five months of sending in regular requests, it became more clear with each polite refusal (carefully typed on White House stationery and personally signed by the first lady) that though a gracious hostess, Mrs. Hoover shunned the spotlight. She was inordinately modest about her many accomplishments.

Unless it had to do with the Girl Scouts. Having served as their national president, raising membership from a ten thousand to over a million girls, she was always ready to talk about them—and entertain them. Thus Izzy hatched her idea to get inside the great sanctum. A routine interview with one of the Scout mistresses sparked things. The woman had proudly mentioned her troop’s upcoming visit to the White House and the whole scheme burst upon Izzy’s mind in a flash brilliant enough to impress even Edison.

She bought the largest-sized green uniform available at a local department store, a tight fit but manageable. With the connivance of a slightly-misled janitor at the local Girl Scout Little House (she bitterly claimed her baby sister had forgotten everything), Izzy got the Scout’s schedule, and managed to blend in with the crowd of girls. There had been a few hair-raising moments when she thought one or another of the Scout mistresses had spotted her, but nothing came of it. As she’d hoped, each must have thought her to be with a different troop. Now she was only yards from the great oval of the Blue Room. Even coming this far would make a story, but to finally get inside...there...she spotted movement beyond the sheer curtains of the French doors: people shifting about in the shaded interior.

The girls were restless with curiosity, some jumping up to better see. Izzy missed Mrs. Hoover’s entrance; had she opened the doors for herself or did one of her four secretaries do the honors or was it a servant? Details like that made interesting color.

Mrs. Hoover greeted the Scout leaders and welcomed everyone. In a cotton dress with a green tint similar to the uniforms and a friendly smile. She had pronounced eyebrows and a firm mouth, and the smile softened her looks, made her more homey. She proceeded them, leading the way through the Blue Room to a wide, pillar-studded hall, taking their giddy, shuffling parade to the right. They ended up in the vast East Room where their concert would take place. Everyone milled through. Though told to be quiet and respectful of the surroundings, the girls gave in to enthusiasm, squealing at the wide echoing indoor space and impressive decor, which included a grand piano. It was irresistible.

Izzy hung back as much as she dared, torn between the desire to hear everything Mrs. Hoover might utter and the need to check out forbidden areas. Her chance came when a dozen girls surged toward the piano. The room resonated with loud and inexpert renderings—no, make that random pounding upon the presidential keys, much to the delight of the rest. More squeals, screams, and laughter followed. Control was quickly restored, but by then Izzy had slipped unobtrusively through a door at the southern end while the servants and Secret Service man were distracted.

She was in the Green Room, and it was thankfully empty. She counted herself very lucky that it was unlocked, but part of the Scouts’ visit was to include a tour of the public areas. It must have been left open in anticipation of that. Faced with a choice of five doors, she picked the opposite left, which brought her back to the Blue Room. Some people were talking at the northernmost end of its oval, but no one paid attention as she hurried across and breached the entry to the Red Room.

It was empty, lighted only by the hot summer sunshine pouring through the open windows. Izzy found herself breathless more from excitement than the muggy afternoon heat. She’d hardly hoped to make it this far. If nothing else she would have an excellent piece about the lack of security within the house. Wouldn’t that bowl everyone over? The nation’s president vulnerable in the most famous house in America...of course he wasn’t in this part at the moment, but there was a principle at stake here, and under the byline of Isabelle DeLeon, Izzy would triumphantly shout it forth.

She wanted more to shout about, though, and to do that required gaining the private quarters in the floors above. What little she knew of the public areas led her to believe access could be made through first the State, then the Family dining rooms. Heart in throat, she set forth.

§ § §

As with many situations in life, it is far easier to land oneself into a predicament than to make a successful extraction from its coils. Thus did Izzy find herself crouched down behind a bamboo chair surrounded by potted palm trees in a sunlit room that should have been an upstairs hall. This wasn’t on the diagram Izzy had gotten from one of her contacts, a maid who had worked here during the Coolidge administration.

Mrs. Hoover had been inordinately busy redecorating the family’s private quarters, and she possessed firm, if exotic ideas on how to go about it. The fan-shaped floor-to-ceiling window at the far end washed the room with light, mitigated only slightly by an enormous bird cage full of frantically chirping canaries. Palms, ferns and other plants loomed everywhere, bamboo furniture rested comfortably on a rattan rug, oriental vases dotted tables and shelves. It would have been a most pleasant place to relax under any other circumstances, but Izzy in her overly tight shoes and constricting, hot uniform was anything but comfortable. She was supposed to be gathering news to report, not hiding like a fugitive.

She had just been sneaking into what she thought was the president’s own bedroom when a bell abruptly sounded, making three sharp rings. Not knowing if it was a fire drill or a burglar alarm, Izzy let instinct take charge and ran quick as scat down the hall, diving for the nearest cover. For the last half hour she had to hold perfectly still, which was becoming more difficult with the cramps shooting up her legs from her outraged feet. She pushed the pain aside, though, for the president himself sat within spitting distance of her hiding place. He and another man were in deep conversation, and though close, Izzy had to strain to hear them. President Hoover was infamous for mumbling into his tie, and she only caught bits and pieces of their talk.

“You’ll want to watch yourself, Allan,” he said. “I’ve warned them time and again that buying on margin will lead to trouble. I hope you’ll advise your school friends to not take any such risks on the market.”

The reply was lost to her, the other man was busy with the canaries, and their noise and flapping swallowed his words. Izzy couldn’t believe her luck. Not only was she overhearing the president, but a private chat between the president and his son, Allan. Wasn’t he supposed to be at Harvard? He must have come home for a summer visit.

“—really can’t say about much of anything, or they’ll think you’re trying to influence the market through me,” he said over his shoulder. Izzy could barely make out his form through the palm fronds. He looked to be as tall as his father, nearly six feet, and would probably fill out into the same strong huskiness.

The president lighted a large cigar, releasing a cloud of blue smoke. “I know. We must never misuse this office, or even appear to misuse it. It only fuels those Democrat-controlled rags. The way they natter on, you’d think I was the Communist. The things I’m accused of is beyond tolerance. Lies, all of it rubbish and lies.”

“Don’t pay any mind to them,” said Allan. “They’re always going to be whipping up something out of nothing to sell more papers. Criticism is the best way to do it. You’d think those blasted reporters had better things to do with their time—like going after that bootlegging Kennedy clan.”

Both men chuckled.

Izzy set her mouth, used to the not-so-subtle, ongoing, and endless fencing match that existed between politicians and the press. Each needed the other much the same as a rhinoceros needed a tick bird. Well, she was anything but some hack reporter. She was after a real story, and this was it: the Hoovers at home, a warm, caring family of true public servants with a disliking for Democrats, Communists...and a predilection for canaries.

And dogs. Uh-oh. Izzy froze even more, if that was possible, as a couple of completely gigantic police dogs bounded into the room, one dark, the other white. Allan and his father greeted them, but some kind of altercation broke out with the animals, requiring sharp commands from both men to restore order.

“They just don’t mix,” said Mr. Hoover. “Better get those two out of here.”

“The dogs?”

“Yes, the dogs, at least they know how to obey a command. They work better with the help around here than your herd.”

Allan laughed and set about removing the dogs, calling for King Tut and Snowboy to make a quick exit. They reluctantly complied. Izzy breathed soft relief; she’d been terrified the dogs would sense her presence.

“I don’t know how you manage to keep those things from eating everything in sight,” Hoover admonished. He muttered something else.

“They’re not so much trouble,” said Allan. “You should be around when I toss them raw chicken. Mother would stop complaining about how fast you eat.”

“Just mind that they don’t scare the servants.”

“If I ever see any. Every time a bell goes off around here they’re popping into closets like jack-in-the boxes in reverse. I wish you’d get over your dislike of dealing with them. They’re only just people after all.”

His father mumbled something in which the word privacy figured, and Allan Hoover chuckled.

So that explained the ringing alarm and why she’d not seen anyone. Izzy had no need to take notes, this was too completely extraordinary to forget.

“How did your downstairs concert go?” Allan asked.

“Fine, fine. Cheered your mother up. She does enjoy seeing all those bright faces. I think she’d like to be president of them again, given the chance, but she knows she can do more from here than any other place. Oh, get off, you overgrown newt! Look at that. He’s trying to eat my shoe!”

Allan laughed again, what a cheerful sort he was, and there was a dragging sound followed by a strange hissing. “You behave yourself. You want the Secret Service to shoot you?”

Izzy didn’t think he was addressing his father, so there must have been someone or something else in the room, perhaps another dog. But what kind of a mutt hissed?

There was a knock. Mr. Hoover bade them enter, though there was no real door, just a gap in a series of partitions meant to create a space removed from the hall. Like the rest of the room there was a heavy Oriental influence to the panels, reflecting the family’s travels in China.

A man came in, tall, dark suit, grim and hasty manner. “Mr. President, we think there may be an intruder in the house.”

“What? Another one?” Mr. Hoover sounded more annoyed than disturbed at the prospect. Izzy held her breath.

“Yes, sir. We’re doing a room-by-room search, but for your own safety it has been suggested that you remove to your office. We’ve checked and cleared it.”

“I was going back to work regardless,” said the president. “It never stops, unless Mrs. Hoover insists on a pause for me.”

Allan murmured agreement. “I suppose all those Scouts will be gone by now. Mother will want to tell one of us about it. Shall I volunteer?”

“By all means, but she’ll have you stuffing envelopes with her secretaries if you’re not nimble enough to escape.”

“I don’t mind. This way I can keep an eye on her.”

His father said something to the effect that Mrs. Hoover was more than capable of keeping an eye on herself. Neither of them seemed too concerned about the intruder, which Izzy took for a favorable sign. If by horrible chance she got caught they might laugh it off. Might. She didn’t think so. Not really. One of the men must have hit a signal button, for a moment later three rings sounded and they all left.

And not a moment too soon. Izzy flopped flat on the floor, stretching her legs in agony, and unsuccessfully stifled a sneeze caused by the haze of cigar smoke. It came out as a kind of truncated squeak that closed up her ears. She worked her jaw until her hearing popped back to normal, then rubbed her abused shank muscles until she felt the pins and needles of returning circulation. She was tempted to remove her painful shoes before they permanently crippled her toes, but didn’t dare as she’d never force them back on again. Since quitting her backwoods home for the city her feet had grown soft, used to the protection of shiny leather and fashionable heels. Her days of running barefoot through grass and swamp were long over.

She noticed an odd slithery sound, like something moving roughly over the rug. Peeking above the chair she looked accusingly at the canaries. They seemed agitated yet at the same time were oddly silent. What a mess they made, feathers and seed husks everywhere. But enough of them, Izzy had to figure a way out of this place. The Secret Service itself was on to her presence, though lord knew how they found it out. Perhaps one of the people in the Blue Room mentioned seeing a straying Girl Scout wandering around. How could they deem that to be a threat to the president? No matter. She had her story; it was past time to skedaddle.

Her legs mostly functional again, she slowly rose from behind the plants, heading toward the opening to look at the rest of the hall.

Drat. Now there were servants moving around, one of them anyway. How to sneak past him? The longer she waited, the worse it would get. Maybe her Scout cover would hold. If she worked herself into some tears and pretended she’d gotten lost from her troop...what was the troop leader’s name? Monahan or Houlihan? Not important, the White House staff would hardly know the difference. Bluff, bluff, bluff until blue in the face, then run like crazy, that was the way to get a story.

The butler was out of sight. Good, she could slip downstairs and only have to haul out the lost little girl ruse as a last resort.

She eased from behind the partition...

...And came face-to-face with an extremely surprised-looking man wearing dark livery. He had been on the other side of the hall and somehow silently moved up on her. Izzy hadn’t wanted to test herself so soon. She’d not even gotten her tears in place.

He never gave her the chance. Before she could move or speak he hauled one arm back and smartly slammed his fist against the side of her head.

Light lanced behind her eyes and she dropped straight down, face in the rug, utterly unable to move.

Izzy never quite lost consciousness, but lay quite breathless and stunned. Instead of raising a hue and cry at discovering the intruder, the servant bolted off. She managed to crack one eyelid enough to mark his retreating feet. Oh, God, now she was in for it. Was trespassing at the White House a federal crime? She should have researched that. Maybe she could write a series about women in prison. Was there a women’s federal prison?

Think, Isabelle. They’d not clapped the irons on yet, nor had he sounded the alarm. She could hide in a closet until the ringing in her skull died down. Ow-ow-owwwww. What a bully, hitting a helpless little Girl Scout. If she laid eyes on him again she’d show him a thing or three...

Ring-ring.

That hadn’t come from inside her head. The president must be on his way back. Being found sprawled over the hall rug was too ignominious to be endured. She’d go back to her hiding place. Maybe later she could duck into a bedroom, knot sheets together, and escape out a window after dark...

Footsteps. Coming her way.

She managed to get to her knees, and crept past the partitions to her spot behind the palms. She was dizzy, and her head hurt miserably.

Flat on the floor again. How had that happened? Oh, her feet hurt, her head, ouch-ouch; she’d better get a bonus for this one, if she ever got away. Quiet, she had to be very, very quiet.

She put her back to a wall, drawing her knees up, the easier to cradle her pounding head. The president’s lingering cigar smoke made her sick to her stomach. Adding to the misery was another smell mingling with the smoke, a strangely familiar musk, redolent of the swamp. There must be some stagnant water in one of the vases, left forgotten after the removal of its flowers. Phew, what a stink.

Two more people seemed to be in the room. Allan Hoover and a woman in the midst of expressing her irritation. Izzy recognized the first lady’s voice.

“It’s ridiculous,” she said. “How can we not be safe in our own home surrounded by guards?”

“They’re just being cautious, Mother. Once they’ve combed the house you can get back to work.”

“I’ve much too much to do to leave it for long. There’s mail to answer, dinner invitations to send, and those calling cards will want a reply.”

“You don’t have to respond to them all.”

“Allan, that’s not at all proper or polite. Those people took the trouble to come and leave their cards, the least we can do is show our appreciation. This is their house, too.”

“I think many leave a card just to get your autograph on the house stationery.”

“You have a poor opinion of the people of this country.”

“The people are just fine, it’s the politicians we want to watch out for.”

“Oh, Allan.” But there was affection in her tone. “Just let your father hear that.”

“I’m certain he would agree.”

Despite her nausea, Izzy still took mental notes, albeit with the suspicion that she could just possibly be dreaming. A bang on the head might do terrible things to one’s brain, creating hallucinations. Had she imagined that butler? Where had he gotten himself?

“Have they cleared this floor yet?” Mrs. Hoover asked.

Allan went to the opening. “They’re still looking around. It shouldn’t be too long.”

“Please tell them to hurry. There aren’t that many places to search. Certainly no closets to speak of.” That sounded like a pet grievance of hers. A house this huge with no closets? Unthinkable.

“Not yet, anyway. Any day now I expect you to start tearing into the walls.”

“The place needs shaking up. Never did I see such a drab old barn in my life. I don’t know how Mrs. Coolidge stood it, and she was always so ill here. Poor thing should have gotten more sunshine. That would have set her right. Always worked well for you two boys.”

“Yes, Mother.” Allan left, calling to someone in the distance, then went off.

He was gone for longer than the first lady had patience to wait. Izzy heard Mrs. Hoover give an audible sigh, then follow her son.

Izzy wondered if now would be the best time to show herself. After hearing a mother’s affectionate talk with her son, Izzy began to realize how she might feel having an uninvited stranger eavesdropping in her house. This had gone too far. Time to stop no matter the consequences. They might go light on her. Surely if Mrs. Hoover heard a personal appeal to her well-known humanitarian instincts, along with a groveling apology...

But Izzy couldn’t do that. The bash in the head was confusing her. Good heavens, she was tougher than this. She could stick it out a little longer. Besides, this was likely the safest place to hide. She’d wait, escape, and then apologize. Anonymously. From a distance. Chicago, maybe. She could do stories on Al Capone. Unless they fobbed her off to Mrs. Capone...

Izzy blinked herself alert to the present, not the future. Yes, she could stick it out, but this seemed to be a favorite gathering spot for the family; what else might she overhear? Personal talk was the bread and butter of the yellow press, but she had higher standards than that. Human interest was acceptable, but one had to draw a line. And what if the dogs were brought in again? They’d been distracted earlier, but sooner or later they’d sniff her out. Perhaps they wouldn’t eat her—she’d been raised with coon hounds and knew how to stall excited canines until help arrived—but avoiding the circus would be best for all concerned.

Conscience wanted her to do otherwise, though. Common sense said that throwing herself on the first lady’s mercy would be better than explaining things to the Secret Service. Those fellows were uncommonly serious. All right, well and good. Isabelle DeLeon, formerly a member of the Washington press would emerge, confess, and apologize. Besides, it would put everyone’s mind at rest about the so-called intruder. No bomb-throwing Bolsheviks, no Communists, just one diminutive reporter with more enthusiasm than wisdom.

Decision made, Izzy unsteadily emerged from her bolt hole. At least now she could get rid of these awful shoes, though on second thought it might not be the right sort of behavior to display before this well-bred crowd. She didn’t think Mrs. Hoover would approve of people walking about in socks.

Smothering a groan for her feet and head, Izzy started toward the opening. Mrs. Hoover was in conversation with others from the sound of things. Servants, perhaps? Though from that bell-ringing earlier the clear-the-halls signal applied to her as well as her husband.

Then Izzy saw that darn butler again. Where had he come from? What in heaven’s name had he been doing waiting around in this room the whole time she’d wrestled with her conscience? Now he’d spoil everything by giving away her presence before she was ready. She had to get to Mrs. Hoover first.

Izzy shot forward, beating him to the hall, then halted cold in her tracks, frozen with absolute shock. Just ahead of her, moving at a quick pace for its size, was an honest-to-God alligator. It couldn’t have been hallucination, not with that stagnant water smell. How in heaven’s name had it gotten here?

The answer could wait. It was heading straight for the first lady, long mouth gaping wide, and she seemed quite unaware of its threat.

Without thinking, Izzy launched bodily toward the thing. It was nearly as long as she was tall, but she knew how to deal with the varmints. She and her brothers had pulled more than one of them out of the hen house. If you were strong enough you could grab the tail and haul backwards, and if quick enough, jump clear before the head whipped around to bite off anything important. Izzy was quick, but lacked the muscle power for heavy hauling.

Instead, she landed on the reptile in a flying tackle, pushing down hard with all of her ninety-nine pounds and clamping her small hands onto its snout. The beast had a fearsome bite, but first it had to get its jaws open. Preventing that took surprisingly little effort. However, the rest of its body was pure muscle, especially the tail. She wrapped her legs around the gator just as it bucked and rolled, twisting with outrage. Izzy knew she would tire before it did and unashamedly shouted for help, hoping the Secret Service would shoot only it and not her.

“Run, Mrs. Hoover!” she put in for good measure. “I’ve got it! Run!”

Mrs. Hoover did not run, and in fact looked remarkably calm about the whole business, calling for her son. “Allan, will you please remove this reptile from that poor girl?”

The gator had other ideas and twisted again, violently thrashing until it was on top. She tried to hold it firm, but its great head began to get away from her, which could be deadly. She felt the shape of the teeth under her fingers; one slash from those in the right place would cut to the bone and beyond.

Then a man stepped into her field of view, made a successful grab at the snout, and pulled the thing right from her. He danced backward with it, nearly blundering into a Secret Service agent brandishing a gun.

“Shoot it!” Izzy yelled.

“No!” the man yelled back. He was Allan Hoover and seemed much taller from Izzy’s low vantage point. In very quick order he had the gator under control. He charged toward the partitioned end of the hall, and released the thing, skipping away in time to avoid getting whacked by the tail. Her brothers couldn’t have done better. Young Hoover puffed, grinned, and shook his rumpled suit back into place.

“He’s going to be mad for awhile,” he said. “We better stay out of that area until he settles down.”

“Allan, I think it’s time you put that monster in a zoo.”

“Oh, Mother, he’s not even half grown yet. He behaves so long as people don’t surprise him.” He glowered down at Izzy, but failed at truly intimidating her. After wrestling with an alligator she didn’t think very much else would.

Goodness, but he was handsomer than his photos. His cleft chin was more pronounced than his father’s, and he had his mother’s forthright eyebrows. All in all, an impressive combination.

“Don’t go scaring the girl,” said Mrs. Hoover. “She’s been through enough.”

“I’m all right,” Izzy ventured. She started to pick herself up—how many hours had she been on the floor today?—but the agent with the gun came forward.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, sighting down its short muzzle at her.

Izzy had no intention of arguing with him, but Mrs. Hoover did. “Do put that away, Mr. Borden. I’ll take care of this.”

“Sorry, ma’am. Orders.”

“I said to put that away.” She did not raise her voice, but there was a note in it that would brook no argument. She wasn’t used to repeating herself, this was her house, and in domestic matters she was in full charge of it. All that in half a dozen words combined with a slight lifting of her chin. Light flickered off her eyeglass lenses, concealing some of her expression, but none of her dynamism. The agent wavered. “Use your head, Mr. Borden, this little girl thought she was saving me from being eaten alive. Isn’t that right, dear?”

Izzy nodded. Could her disheveled Scout disguise be working? Probably not. Mrs. Hoover seemed the type not to miss much. Allan Hoover had begun to smile. Or was that a smirk? Going suddenly red, Izzy yanked her skirt down to a more socially acceptable level.

“But, ma’am...” agent Borden looked very unhappy, reluctant to abandon his protective instincts.

“Report it to the appropriate party,” said Mrs. Hoover. “In the meantime, I’ll look into this. Allan, she seems in need of help.”

Allan readily stepped forward and assisted Izzy to her feet. Ow, they were still in agony, and she was still sick; the aftermath of the fight left her shaking from unused adrenaline.

“Are you injured?” he asked, supporting her.

“The gator didn’t hurt me, it was that butler who hit me in the head.”

“What butler?”

“One of the butlers or footmen or someone socked me one in the noggin,” she said. “Then he ran off.”

Allan looked at the agent. “I think she’s seen your intruder, Mr. Borden.”

“Where?” Borden demanded.

Izzy waved toward the sun room. “He was in there a minute ago.”

“The Palm Court?”

This time Mrs. Hoover did not demure. When Borden gestured decisively toward the other end of the hall and some stairs, she went without a word. Allan, also silent, followed, helping Izzy limp along. She was too slow for him, though, so he swept her up just like that and carried her down. She was too surprised to protest. Besides, it was very nice to be in the strong arms of a handsome young man, made her glad she wasn’t really a Girl Scout.

Borden shouted, and a number of men in dark suits bounded upstairs. At the lower landing several more surrounded the Hoovers, leading them away. Someone had forgotten to ring the signal bells to warn of the first lady’s approach. Two maids carrying linens were caught flatfooted by the quick-moving parade and hurriedly ducked around a corner. Izzy hoped they wouldn’t get into trouble. That would hardly be fair.

They finally came to something resembling a sitting room, but without windows and only one door. Izzy wondered if it might have originally been a storage cupboard converted to a waiting area. Borden shut them in with one of his men and rushed outside to see to other duties.

Allan set Izzy down on one of the chairs. It must have been a leftover from Lincoln’s day, it had the look, and she became conscious that she was not only disheveled, but smelled strongly of alligator. Ugh.

“Felling better?” he asked.

“Very much,” she lied. “Thank you, and I owe you both a huge apology.”

“Why don’t you tell us your name first?” suggested Mrs. Hoover, taking a chair opposite. “Then you can explain the details behind your apology. Are you or have you ever been a Girl Scout?”

Izzy winced, having collected the instant impression that the first lady would be as rankled by the misuse of this uniform as any military man upon seeing an undeserving civilian masquerading in full officer’s kit. Wrestling another alligator would be preferable to this particular accounting, that or getting shot by the Secret Service. She could make a run for it. The man by the door would cut her down point-blank...but no. Izzy had already resolved to bare all, but for that butler spoiling things.

Besides, these shoes made running quite impossible.

She offered a weak smile, squirmed, gave her name, and began talking, starting with her desire to get an interview to her impersonation idea, to her misinterpretation of the gator’s intentions. It was explained to that the beast had indeed been looking for food, but seeking out Allan to give it some, not to make a meal of the first lady.

“Father will be none too pleased,” Allan said, referring to the business of the interview and the eavesdropping. Izzy had apologized frequently and sincerely.

“He won’t be the only one,” agreed Mrs. Hoover. “However, Miss DeLeon exhibited a remarkable turn of wit and nerve to get so far, and then to leap so boldly upon that great reptile...”

Allan’s smile returned briefly. “That was smooth. Miss DeLeon, you’re the only female I’ve ever met who wasn’t terrified to shrieking at the very sight of my pets. That puts you ahead of a number of men, too.”

“Pets?” she squeaked. While growing up Izzy had had to put up with occasional gator incursions. They were a sometimes dangerous nuisance and more often than not turned into the family’s dinner depending on who had the gun that day, but certainly nothing you’d want to keep as a pet. A coon hound was much more practical. “You have more than one?”

“I’ve matched set. A Mr. Cornell Woolley gave them to me a few years ago when we lived on S Street. They were whizzer. I was the only boy in the whole town with my very own alligators.”

From that perspective his enthusiasm for the distinction was understandable. Mrs. Hoover’s expression was reserved, but it was clear she was holding back her private opinion concerning Mr. Woolley’s questionable generosity. “Allan still keeps them in the bathtubs at night. It’s a wonder we have any servants left.”

Allan seemed used to this particular observation. “They’re better than the Marines. In all that time on S Street, were we ever worried over burglars?”

“No, just finding ourselves short of a cook some morning, whether she departed in the night of her own accord or had been untimely consumed. But we are losing the point. What are we to do with you, Miss DeLeon?”

Izzy had a number of proposals, all of which ended with her being free to leave the grounds, never to return. She would gratefully totter home, tender her resignation to the paper, and hop the first train to Chicago where things were safer. So far as she knew, no gators roamed free in the houses of the rich and refined there. And after this debacle, interviewing Al Capone would be far less fatiguing or perilous. But Izzy never got the chance to voice her ideas; Borden returned.

“Are we free to leave?” Mrs. Hoover asked him.

“Sorry, ma’am, no.”

“You’ve still not found him?”

“We have and we haven’t.”

She raised her brows, inquiring.

“We made a search of the house and rounded up every man in servant clothing. Some are new to the general staff, but all are known to each other and the house usher. If this miss would make an identification of the culprit we can clear it up right away.”

“I only got a glimpse,” said Izzy.

“Miss, you are in very serious trouble. The best way to ameliorate things is to cooperate with us.”

“At least give it a try,” said Allan. “Shall I carry you again?”

If his mother hadn’t been looking on with a shrewd eye Izzy might have taken him up on that. “I can manage now.” Biting back the shoe discomfort she stood, but had a genuine need to lean on his arm.

They went to a wide hall, the equivalent of the one on the floor above, but with majestic pillars marching down its length. What a grand impression it must make on visiting heads of state. Izzy felt a swell of pride to have her country represented in such a beautiful manner. Between the pillars on one side nearly twenty men in servant livery were gathered, looking remarkably alike except for the dark faces of the Negroes. With a jar, Izzy noticed that to a man, they were all exactly the same height.

“The one who hit me was white,” she whispered to Borden.

At a word from him the ranks were thinned. The men dismissed from the line-up—for that was what it looked like—were slow to leave, obviously curious to know what was going on. Mrs. Hoover took off her glasses and twirled them. They instantly departed.

“Which one?” asked Borden.

Izzy checked each remaining face, none were remotely familiar. In a fit of inspiration she examined their trouser knees for signs of crawling around. Last she inspected their shoes, and finally shook her head. “I’m sorry, but he’s not here. The man I saw had old, worn-down heels. He’d polished his shoes, but there was too much scuffing to cover up the damage.”

“Good eye for detail,” said Allan. “Miss DeLeon should be working for you. Well, if he’s not here, then he’s still upstairs. Is my father is safe?”

“Yes, Mr. Hoover. I doubled the number of men around him. They’re alert for trouble.”

“The man may still be on the same floor,” said Mrs. Hoover. “Just in a very good hiding place. I trust you looked under the beds in the family quarters?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hoover.” Borden seemed unpiqued at having so basic a point raised. “We will check all over again.”

“The windows are wide open with this heat. Perhaps he made an exit by that means.”

“From so high up?” asked Izzy, then remembered she’d planned a similar escape using knotted sheets. “It could be possible that...”

“What?”

“Well, something Mr. Hoover said about not having burglars at your previous residence. I’d been hiding a very long time in that sunny room.”

“The Palm Court?”

“Yes, and the alligators were there the whole while?”

Allan nodded. “They like to sun themselves. It scares the canaries, though.”

“I think they scared more than the birds. If this man got up to the Palm Court, hid himself, then realized he was sharing his bushwhacking blind with a pair of gators—”

“He’d have been too terrified himself to move. Oh, this is smooth! I think you have it. Mr. Borden, let’s go hunting.”

“Sir, I can’t allow you to—”

“Bother that, follow me!”

Allan charged up the stairs, Borden and his men hastened after, and sore feet or no, Izzy followed, since no one told her to stay put. Mrs. Hoover called after her son, but to no avail. Perhaps he’d been so quick to go in order to prevent parental restraint.

Izzy had to hang onto the hand rail at the top; she wasn’t quite up to her best yet, but wanted a prime location to watch.

Borden reclaimed enough of his authority to compel young Hoover to hang back a sensible distance. Two men were doing their best to stand in front of him while Borden and two others made their way cautiously toward the dividing panels.

“Don’t shoot my alligators,” said Allan in a very low voice, pitched to carry only a few feet.

Borden gave no sign of acknowledgement, his whole attention focused on listening. All Izzy heard were the birds, singing and flapping in their big cage. She inched forward. Just inside the Palm Court lay one of the gators. Its tail toward them, its head was partly turned. Evidently it was aware of Borden’s presence. He hesitated. Though protecting the president required flinging himself between his charge and assailants, dealing with a testy alligator was likely not a normal part of his job duties.

Getting an idea, Izzy took off her shoes. Oh, dear lord, that felt good, but she couldn’t pause to enjoy the exquisite relief. She said psst. Borden turned. She motioned for him to move to one side. He got her intent and stepped clear. Izzy had the eye and arm for throwing things, and the official Girl Scout footwear was a very sturdy, heavy item, built for tough use. Izzy made use of it by a hard and, as it turned out, accurate throw at the gator’s head.

The gator snapped irritably at the object as it bounced off its flat skull. Izzy threw the remained shoe, this time so it landed past the snout. The thing scrabbled after, snapping it up like a prize.

With the way clear, Borden and his men entered the court, guns ready. Izzy held her breath and could tell Allan did the same. No one moved for a moment, then Borden emerged, disappointment on his face.

“No one’s there, sir,” he said to Allan.

“My alligator.” Allan moved past them. “If he swallows that shoe it could kill him.”

Saving the gator was not Borden’s concern, but Izzy felt a touch of responsibility. She followed Allan into the Palm Court. It was bright and hot compared to the dim hall, the light dazzling her. Allan was on his knees straddling his pet’s back. As if from long practice, he grabbed the alligator’s jaws and pulled them apart like a lion tamer.

“Would you retrieve your shoe, Miss DeLeon?” he asked.

Izzy didn’t like to risk getting her arm bitten off if his grip slipped, but she couldn’t flinch now. The shoe was hanging half way out, anyway. She snagged it up and backed away.

“Watch out, there’s the other one,” Allan advised.

Turning, Izzy saw the second gator approaching from the other side of the room, attracted by the activity. “Maybe you’d better feed them,” she said.

“Yes, then they might forgive me for all the abuse they’ve been through.” Allan released his hold and jumped back. “Perhaps we can—” He stopped, staring at something behind Izzy. She whirled. A man was clambering through the open window. He had firm hold of a thick, knotted rope that extended upward. Apparently he’d just climbed down from the roof.

Without thinking, Izzy aimed and threw again. Her official Scout shoe smashed square into the side of his head. Allan yelled for help, then tackled the reeling man. Secret Service agents rushed in; there was a mad scuffle for about four seconds, then everything went quiet. The man was lying face to the floor and handcuffed. Allan Hoover, puffing a bit, stood.

“Whizzer!” he said, grinning down. “Who are you?”

“I have an appointment with the President,” the man stated. He was muffled, his mouth partly imbedded in the rattan rug.

“I think not. People with appointments don’t lurk, and you were lurking.”

“I was trying to get away from those monsters! Kept me from my duty half the day!”

“For that they will get extra chicken. Sounds like his pot is cracked, Mr. Borden.”

“We’ll find out for certain, sir.” Borden, who had been part of the rescue mob, now supervised the man’s removal. “This miss needs to come along, too.” He put a hand on Izzy’s arm.

Allan Hoover removed it. “I’ll vouch for her, Mr. Borden.”

“But, sir, she—”

“I know, but Mother and I will look into it. I’m satisfied she meant no harm. On the contrary, she and my alligators have endeavored to do your job.”

“I’ll have to make a report, sir.”

“Fine, fine, I’m sure it will be entertaining. Come, Miss DeLeon. Let’s get your other shoe before my pets eat it.”

In the hall, Izzy padded along, shoes in hand. Mrs. Hoover waited by lower landing, staring after the agents as they led the intruder away. He was speaking very loud and rapidly about his missed appointment with the president.

“Dear me, if he’d just left a calling card he’d have gotten an invitation to one of our receptions,” she said. She looked at Izzy. “Well, Miss DeLeon, what are we to do with you? As a staunch supporter of the Constitution I cannot curtail freedom of speech as represented by the press, but—”

Izzy raised a conciliatory hand. “Not to worry, Mrs. Hoover. This is a heck of a—I mean a great story, but I’d rather forget it ever happened. I promise to respect your privacy and that of your family for as long as I live. My word of honor as a not-quite-Girl Scout.”

Mrs. Hoover blinked a few times, digesting this, and looked at Allan, who nodded. “Then your word is good enough for me, Miss DeLeon. I think you should leave now, but I will expect you back here this evening. We serve dinner at eight sharp.”

Izzy felt a case of shock coming on.

“That is, if you’re up to it?”

“I....yes! I’ll be here!” No bump on the head would keep her away.

“Very good. Allan, see that she gets a ride. Good day, Miss DeLeon.” Mrs. Hoover left them.

“Dinner,” Izzy breathed. Had she heard right?

Allan shrugged. “My parents never eat alone unless it’s their anniversary. This is Mother’s way of thanking you for your help and providing you with a safe story to write. Wait ’til my father hears this.”

Oh, this was wonderful...terrific...whizzer. “Dinner at the White House!” Saying it aloud made it more real.

“You’ll enjoy it. Can’t say that I always do.” He took her arm, leading her gently off. “Don’t quote me, but this old barn has always given me the willies.” So said a man who kept alligators for pets. He gestured back up toward them. “Seems to agree with those two, though…”

§ § §

The Hoovers in 1928

Left to right, Herbert Hoover, Jr., his wife, and Allan Hoover.
The president and Mrs. Hoover.

Izzy's new friends

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