Dead to the Last Drop

by Cleo Coyle

“No.”

  “Then you are not taken, and I have a chance!” He grinned with a gamer’s gusto. Then he turned to me and spoke in English—

  “We have sold the last of your muffins, boss. The glass case is empty again, but the customers are still hungry. This is my news. And now, back I return”—he winked at Joy—“to the battlefront!”

  “Who was that idiot?”

  “He’s not an idiot. He’s my new assistant manager. He’s also a brilliant barista and bartender—with a sommelier’s knowledge of wine—and he’s a very hard worker.”

  “He’s very fresh!”

  “Not usually. But he is Italian. So if he pinches any part of your body, I want to hear about it.”

  “Fine, but you better not tell Manny Franco.”

  “Believe me, Joy, it took me ages to find Tito. I have no intention of seeing him murdered by your boyfriend.”

  Ding!

  “Perfect timing,” I said, hurrying to the oven.

  Another giant batch of my Best Blueberry Muffins was ready for the empty pastry case!

  Fifty-three

  AN hour later, I was ready.

  Matt had warned me that his mother had things to say about firing her “prodigy” chef, and I’d put it off long enough, so I plowed my way through our crowded coffeehouse, dodged the crazy traffic on Wisconsin (largely due to us), and trudged over to N Street.

  Not that I was in a hurry to get there . . .

  Deal with it, Clare, it’s time to face the music . . .

  Unfortunately, the musician I was about to face had eighty-plus years of crooning her undiluted opinions. In culinary terms, Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois didn’t sugarcoat her words.

  Oh, she had a beautiful heart, but it was well calloused by hard knocks. I admired her for that. But then, I’d been on her good side most of the time. We’d been through so much together—as mother- and daughter-in-law; as mentor and apprentice. It was because I loved and respected her that I dreaded the idea of disappointing her.

  As I entered the Cox’s Row mansion, I heard crashing noises from the gourmet kitchen. Girding myself for a chilly greeting, I moved through the elegant rooms and pushed through the swinging door.

  Madame was not a petite woman. Like her son and granddaughter, she was blessed with height. But she looked small in this large space, amid all the spotless tiles and stainless steel. As she threw open the cupboards and chattered with her maid, however, it was clear her trademark energy had not diminished.

  For a moment, her clothing threw me. Madame’s usual attire ran to designer pantsuits and whimsically printed silk scarves. But this lady was dressed like a vagabond. And then it hit me: dry-clean-only ensembles don’t mix with flour, butter, eggs, and cream!

  The capri jeans and slip-on sneakers looked like Joy’s. And the giant, faded T-shirt had to be my ex-husband’s. The size of the shirt was a giveaway, but so was the phrase across the chest: Extreme Kitesurfing ~ Kona, Hawaii!

  Not that Madame wasn’t daring. Her Midsummer Night Swing dance moves at Lincoln Center were proof of that. But surfing Hapuna Bay with a power kite strapped to her back? Nope, couldn’t see it.

  What I did see in the strong light of the afternoon sun was a determined octogenarian pulling out pans and measuring cups, shuffling recipes, and taking inventory on the ingredients she found in the kitchen versus the ones her beloved son was in the process of fetching.

  At last, she noticed me. “Finally! I’ve been waiting for you!”

  “Matt said you wanted to speak with me?”

  For an awkward moment, Madame gawked at my tense expression. Then she plopped a long-fingered hand on her hip and began her lecture—

  “Clare, what is wrong with you?”

  I gritted my teeth, waiting for the rest.

  But there was no lecture. Only a demand: “Come over here and give me a hug!”

  “A hug?” I blinked. “You’re not angry?”

  “About what?”

  “My firing Chef Hopkins.”

  “Oh, that! The truth is—I am angry. Very angry. At myself!”

  I studied her gently wrinkled face. “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes you do. Tad Hopkins is a brilliant chef, but he’s also a brilliant con artist.” The hand on her hip waved in the air, as if swatting away an annoying bug. “Back in New York, he was all charm, telling me he was ready for a move. I thought I was lucky, securing a chef of his caliber for our DC kitchen. I assumed he’d be a great help to you, a burden off your shoulders. I envisioned you two as a dynamic duo—your sophisticated knowledge of coffees and beverages and his youthful energy and dazzling menus.”

  She shook her head, her silver pageboy shimmering in the sun. “I should have known better. That’s why I’m angry!”

  “But I’m responsible for the overall management here, and the only reason we’re in a fix today is because I didn’t fix the problem sooner.” I looked away, embarrassed. “When we came down here, Gardner and I dreamed of success, of having Georgetown dance in the streets. But all we’ve done is cost you money.”

  “Clare, you did your best in a bad situation—and, frankly, with a bad man.”

  “Because he stole from us?”

  “Because he accused you of stealing.”

  Fifty-four

  “HE did what?!”

  “You heard me.”

  “He accused me of stealing?”

  Madame nodded. “A few days ago, Hopkins rang me up, claiming he caught you embezzling from my business. You were incompetent, he said, and he simply couldn’t work with you—oh, and he was about as generous with his comments when it came to Gardner, as well.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Not a thing. I told him I’d have to think it over. Then I ended the call and immediately contacted my lawyer, asking him to review Hopkins’s contract and find out what our options were for getting him the hell out of our business.”

  A wave of relief flowed through me. “So you were going to fire him?”

  “My dear, I already knew about the poor reviews of the man’s food. He could have tempered that ego and worked with you and Gardner to adapt his menu, make it work for this time and place. Instead, Hopkins played politics—and lost. I’ve been around a block or two, you know, and the moment he accused you of stealing, I knew he was. That’s the game of the wrongdoer, look for a scapegoat, someone to blame or frame.”

  Then she smiled wide enough to deepen the gentle creases in her cheeks.

  “I’m proud of you, Clare, not only for standing up to that awful man, but for finding a strategy to beat him. According to my lawyer, if we had fired him without cause, we would have had to pay him a fortune.”

  “I’m just glad I found cause before he caused me to jump in the Potomac. Some of those nights, I swear, I came close!”

  “I promise you, I won’t hire another employee for the Village Blend—in New York or Washington—without your vetting the person first.”

  “Please don’t be so hard on yourself. The chef came with a fine pedigree.”

  “But he wanted to be the star, the only star, and our coffeehouse has always been an ensemble production. It’s called Village Blend for a reason, you know?”

  “I know.”

  Then Madame opened her arms, and we finally shared that hug.

  “Now, tell me, how do you feel about tonight?”

  “I have confidence in our new chef, our dedicated staff, and in Gardner, who’ll be managing the Jazz Space program. But there’s a wildly unpredictable element in this mix . . .”

  “Young Abigail?”

  I nodded, unable to stop seeing the image of her tender pale wrist and those terrible vertical scars.

  “Abby played well during our quiet Open Mike Nights,” I said. “But this? Grand Central station has less traffi
c than our ground floor right now, and tonight the Jazz Space will be packed. Press will be there and we’re streaming live on our website. She chose not to cancel tonight, but I have no idea how she’s going to react to the pressure.”

  “You’ll have to have faith, Clare. Walk forward, head high, as if everything will work out—and perhaps it will!”

  “Maybe. But if things go wrong tonight, I’ll never forgive myself . . .”

  And by wrong I didn’t simply mean Abigail Parker running off the stage in tears. I was thinking like Sharon Cage now, looking at every customer as a possible nut with a bomb or gun.

  Maybe the President’s daughter would play well tonight. Maybe she wouldn’t. I just prayed nothing would blow up in our faces. Or worse—Abby’s.

  Fifty-five

  “GOOD evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Jazz Space at the Village Blend . . .”

  Gardner’s deep voice gave me a little thrill as it resonated through our packed house, adding voltage to the buzz of anticipation already in the air.

  The human electricity alone could have powered our LED star field, which now actually twinkled against our twilight blue walls and ceiling—thanks to some theatrical tweaking by Tucker and Punch, both of whom were fixtures of New York’s cabaret scene.

  Together with the flickering votive candles, which Esther and I had placed on every table, those sparkling stars added to the enchantment of this already-magical night.

  Downstairs, our coffeehouse was equally packed—and just as buzzy. Our big-screen monitor was streaming directly from the stage, and dinner service was going smoothly. Even our block party refreshment stand was doing swift business out on Wisconsin Avenue.

  Now Gardner was warming up the audience with the ease of a seasoned professional, his deep, mellow voice sweet as melted chocolate as it flowed through our sound system.

  At his mention of the “Jazz Space,” applause broke out, the loudest coming from the tables up front, where we’d seated Abby’s Open Mike fans, including one of her most loyal followers—the guy I thought of as “Ponytail Man.”

  When he’d first arrived, he even collared me to ask—

  * * *

  “HOW is Abby doing? Is she nervous?”

  Ponytail Man had the kind of face I would have loved to paint, with a broad, slightly crooked nose and dusky coloring that made his trimmed gray beard appear almost white. Small scars and blemishes marked his craggy skin, suggesting he’d done some hard living, yet his nearly black eyes were alive with sharp intelligence, glistening like the dark oily beans of a New Orleans roast.

  “I . . . ah . . . I haven’t seen her today,” I confessed, finding it hard to look away from those intense eyes. “Gardner spent most of the afternoon helping her rehearse with his band . . .” I waved him over.

  “She’s excited,” Gard informed us. “And a little nervous. But as long as she remembers to swing up there, she’ll be fine.”

  “Nice advice.” Ponytail Man nodded his approval. “Wish her luck for me.”

  After settling him into a good seat, I tapped Gard’s shoulder. “What’s that gentleman’s name? I’d like to greet him more personally next time.”

  “I don’t know his name. I thought you did.”

  “I’ll ask Abby after the show. He’s probably one of her AU professors . . .”

  * * *

  AFTER our Open Mike fans were seated, my co-manager moved to the stage’s grand piano. Stan joined him on drums, Jackson on bass, Theo on sax, and together Four on the Floor serenaded the rest of the incoming audience with gorgeously played versions of American jazz standards.

  When everyone was settled and the first round of food and drinks was under way, Gard ended his band’s opening set and approached the standing mic to officially welcome the crowd to our Jazz Space.

  “We are streaming live, as we do every night,” he announced, “but on this very special evening I’m told the President and First Lady will be watching. Let’s give the First Couple a round of applause . . .”

  More clapping followed, but this time the pumped-up volume came from the tables in the center of the room, where we’d seated the White House staff.

  Two familiar faces stood out in that group—the White House chef and a fiftyish brunette, who’d been to our Jazz Space at least once before.

  I could see the brunette was wearing Fen again tonight, just like me, but her outfit was much farther up the food chain, along with that five-hundred-dollar Fen bag I’d coveted.

  I remembered one more thing about the well-heeled woman, and that was the impeccably dressed Indian man who’d gotten cozy with her last week at one of our Open Mike tables—Jeevan Varma.

  Fifty-six

  I didn’t see Mr. Varma here this evening, but I remembered him well enough. How could I forget a man whose crazy behavior led to my telling lies to the DC Metro police?

  Now, at least, I understood Mr. Varma’s connection to Abby. His girlfriend obviously brought him to this club so she could brag about knowing Abby Lane’s true identity. But that failed to explain the man’s actions two nights ago . . .

  Why would a State Department employee, with a girlfriend in the White House, no less, come banging on my back door, drunk as a skunk, in the dead of night? And why would he rush the First Daughter, ranting to her about the President?

  Part of me was hoping to see Jeevan Varma back here tonight so I could get some answers. Then again, part of me feared it.

  Maybe the Secret Service kept him out . . .

  If Mr. Varma worked for the State Department, I doubted there were things in his background that raised red flags. Then again, who knew what sort of trouble he may have gotten into before he showed up in that inebriated state at my coffeehouse?

  For the first time, I was actually grateful to Sharon Cage for being a hard case. No doubt, Abby’s parents were, too.

  “Psst!” From behind the busy bar, Matt caught my eye. I moved closer.

  “Did Gard announce that the President is watching tonight?”

  I nodded.

  “That sure ups the ante,” Matt whispered, shaking up a fresh batch of Espresso Martinis.

  “What worries me isn’t the Commander in Chief. It’s the man’s chef . . .” I tilted my head in her direction. “Let’s hope she doesn’t get indigestion.”

  Matt’s confident grin was dazzling. “Not with our daughter in the kitchen.”

  I mouthed a thank-you for that—and for trimming that bush of his (at my request). Gone was his “detainee” look. My ex-husband’s strong jawline was now outlined by his closely cropped beard, his shaggy dark hair pulled into a short ponytail. His worn T-shirt and jeans were gone, too, exchanged for a nicely filled-out black shirt and slacks, which made us a match tonight—in color, that is.

  After my quick shower, I’d applied makeup, pulled on black stockings, and zipped up my little black dress. I even added some soft curls to my chestnut hair because I knew very well that this evening wasn’t only Abby’s chance to impress Washington. It was ours.

  “Before we bring out our lovely headliner,” Gardner continued from the stage, “I have a question for y’all. By a show of hands, how many of you have never been to a jazz club before tonight? Wave your paw if this is your first time . . .”

  At least 30 percent of the audience put hands up, many with drinks still in them. The sight was hilarious, like a massive toast.

  “Well, look at that . . . I see some of y’all need refills!”

  Everyone laughed and hooted—and some actually ordered refills.

  “Okay,” Gard continued, “how about I break jazz down for you newbies? It’s like this: Here in Washington, you’re experts at improvisation. You may have a point of view, but there’s always someone with another, and a third, and a fourth. Well, the conversations you see on a jazz stage are like the conversations
you have in your offices and agencies and on Capitol Hill.

  “You may bring written notes with you to start your presentation—but what makes or breaks your argument is how well you perform unscripted, in the heat of the moment; how well you listen and respond. Jazz is the art of discovery, and the art of acceptance. In jazz, there are no wrong notes because they’re part of the performance, part of the music, part of the flow . . .”

  “That’s right! You got it! Tell ’em, Gard,” cried fellow musicians at the tables up front.

  “More than any other musical form, jazz is the individual voice of the performer, coming through his or her instrument. That’s the whole nut. In fact, we have a saying in jazz. You don’t play your instrument—”

  “YOU PLAY MUSIC!” shouted Stan, Jackson, and Theo behind him.

  The crowd loved it. They clapped and cheered. They were on board.

  “Tonight, the music you’re about to hear Ms. Abigail Parker play is coming from her heart and soul. To respect that as an audience, all you have to do is listen. Not only with your ears but with your soul and with your heart.” He paused and smiled. “If you do, I promise, you’re about to fall in love . . .”

  Fifty-seven

  AS Gard finished his intro, Abby entered the room and crossed to the stage. Tonight she’d abandoned her funereal look for a shimmering, sleeveless shift the color of our twilight blue walls. Her industrial eyewear was gone, and she’d changed her hairstyle, placing two metallic blue barrettes at the sides of her head, nipping back the dark curtain to let the world see her true identity.

  While Abby looked beautiful, anyone could see that she was visibly tense and purposely avoiding eye contact with the audience.

  As she settled herself on the piano bench, I remembered the name of her signature piece, “Cool Reception,” and better understood what Abigail Parker believed about how the world saw her.

  I felt for her in that moment, and I feared for her, too.

  The public was quick to make judgments these days, and snarky comments were the norm. Internet trolls could do more than provoke a cool reception to an artist like Abby—they could make her want to quit completely.