Dead to the Last Drop

by Cleo Coyle

  Behind the steering wheel, Mike completely ignored the punk. “You sound very sure that the relationship between Abby and Stan went beyond friendship, beyond a shared love of music.”

  “When I first found them alone in our Jazz Space, after hours, I suspected something was going on beyond practicing. When I saw them onstage together that night, I knew they were in love. Now that I’m considering all the details of their story, I have to say—I believe Abby is a runaway bride.”

  “Okay, I get it. But I don’t know if I agree.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your story makes it sound like the President’s daughter was trapped in some sort of arranged engagement—”

  “You think she wasn’t?”

  “I think that’s how you see it.”

  “What about Stan? He saw it that way, too.”

  Now he gave me that Quinn look—the one I’m sure he uses on unreliable perps. “Stan is not exactly an impartial observer.”

  “I can’t believe what you’re saying.”

  “Look, you’ve painted a vivid picture of an emotionally fragile young woman with behavioral issues—”

  “But—”

  “Add it up. Abby attempted suicide in her past. She even took you on a high-speed chase through crowded streets, running from the very people who are supposed to protect her. Does that sound rational?”

  “She’s a young woman, Mike. In case you hadn’t noticed, young women aren’t always rational.”

  “By your own description she showed Jekyll and Hyde dissonance. Face it. Abigail Parker has issues. It sounds to me like her parents and fiancé were just trying to help her deal with them, keep her on track, help her cope. Wasn’t Preston showing mature judgment in making Abby see that her parents deserved time with her, and her security detail should have time off?”

  “I was there, Mike. I saw that boy’s slick transitions, working Abby until he got what he wanted. She was a star, feeling worthy and powerful. And Preston didn’t like it, so he dragged her back down to earth. What I witnessed was not an act of maturity, it was an exercise in manipulation and control. Preston knew how to press Abby’s buttons, just like her mother. He guilt-tripped the girl into leaving her friends on the happiest night of her life. It was wrong.”

  Quinn fell silent a moment. “What do you know about this guy?”

  “Plenty . . .”

  After that display in the greenroom, I’d made it my business to find out more about Preston Emory.

  Sixty-six

  “ABBY’S fiancé came from a family like hers.”

  “They’re politicians?” Quinn assumed.

  “His mother is. She’s a congresswoman from the President’s home state. They’re political allies. And Preston has political ambitions. He went to American University because of its strong tradition in educating students for public service. In his case, his goal is to follow his mother’s footsteps into elected office . . .”

  From what I’d learned, Preston socialized wisely and well during his freshman and sophomore years. He dated a governor’s daughter and joined the same fraternity as Abby’s famously popular older brother, Kent, aka “Kip” Parker. That friendship with Kip was how Preston was introduced to the soon-to-be First Family. He became a fixture at holiday gatherings and at their vacation home.

  When Abby enrolled at American, Preston was at her side to help her through orientation—and keep other potential suitors away. At that point he’d broken up with the governor’s daughter, to focus on a bigger prize.

  Step one was to join Parker’s presidential campaign, another smart move because Preston and Abby saw a lot of each other on the campaign trail, and it was Preston who escorted Abby to President Parker’s inaugural ball.

  After his graduation, Preston became a junior member of the White House staff, where he continued to see Abby. It helped that the First Lady seated him with her daughter at every White House function.

  “Preston may have grown to care for Abby,” I finally admitted to Quinn. “But from what I’ve learned, his engagement to her is more of an arrangement than a true romance. I mean, ask yourself: Would a boy like Preston really fall passionately in love with a girl like Abby—without a strong motive? To put it another way, the guy’s got big plans for himself; and if Abby had been some anonymous, slightly odd wallflower at AU, instead of the President’s only daughter, would he have given her the time of day?

  “Anyway, the plans were set. Right after Abby’s graduation in May, she was scheduled to get married to Preston in June and leave for a monthlong European honeymoon. Then the ‘happy couple’ was supposed to move out of Washington and back to Preston’s home state. He already bought a McMansion in some tony area, where Abby was expected to join the Junior League and start a family while he started his bid for political office.”

  Quinn stared at me a moment, a little dumbfounded. “How in the world do you know all this?”

  “After that night in the greenroom, Abby knew Stan was wrecked. When she called him the next day to apologize, she told him everything about her relationship with Preston. And when I saw Stan the next day, I grilled him—and not only about Preston Emory. He and Abby kept on talking, not face-to-face, only over the phone, but they spoke every night, sometimes for hours. Given what we know about Abby’s disappearance, aren’t you convinced yet that she’d want to be a runaway bride?”

  “The only thing I’m convinced of is why Abby was in that park. And the reason I’m convinced is because she herself told you. It was clever, using that park to evade her security detail.”

  “Like I said, the park runs all the way down to the Potomac River so it could get her to Georgetown without using any streets.”

  “I’m sure the FBI used dogs to trace her movements from her girlfriend’s home. And that’s what led them to the blood—which does not support your runaway bride theory, I’m sorry to say.”

  “It does if she ran away to meet Stan and something went wrong. Maybe someone was watching her, waiting for her, and they took that opportunity to snatch her. Or maybe she simply tripped on a rock and fell! We need more information. We need to know if Stan is missing, too!”

  Quinn nodded. “I’ll ask Danica if she can find a way to help us with that.”

  “Danica?”

  “The detective we’re here to meet. That’s her name, Danica Hatch.”

  “I see.”

  Quinn studied my tight expression. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous?”

  “I’m not jealous. But I am wondering why she’s helping us tonight. It’s a huge risk for her to take.”

  “She has her reasons. You’ll have to trust me on that. Like I trusted you with your ex-husband that night.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Quinn folded his arms. “By your own admission, you were dancing with Allegro the night of Abby’s show. And wasn’t he the same guy who threw me out of N Street and suggested you two ‘double up’ for the night?”

  “Oh, come on. You know Matt.”

  “Yes, unfortunately, I do. And that’s why I don’t trust him. So where exactly did you sleep that night?”

  “Why is that important?”

  Quinn gawked at the guilty look on my face. “Clare, you didn’t. Are you telling me you went to bed with Allegro?”

  “No!”

  “So you didn’t sleep with your ex-husband?”

  “To be totally honest, I did sleep with him. But not in a bed.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “Good, because what happened between me and Matt that night was nothing compared to the shock I got the next morning. And you should hear about that, too.”

  “Fine. But do me a favor and start with you and Allegro. I want to know exactly what the two of you did that night.”

  “What we usually do�
�argue . . .”

  Sixty-seven

  “CLARE, will you get off your feet before you fall off?”

  “Take it easy, Matt, I still have a few more things to check.”

  My ex-husband threw up his hands. “You said that an hour ago!”

  I ignored him.

  The President’s daughter and her massive security detail were gone, but the night was far from over. There was still cleaning, restocking, and after-hours management.

  Gardner and his musician friends were back on stage for an all-night jam. Luther and our staff took a load off, listening as they sipped drinks and unwound. Some die-hard jazz fans hung out, too. Then a few people mentioned they were hungry, and Luther went right back to his kitchen.

  Our cupboards were bare, but I scrounged a few packages of wieners.

  Luther sliced them up and threw them in a skillet with some brown sugar, ketchup, dry mustard, and a generous splash of bourbon. Then Joy insisted we all use little bar pretzel sticks to spear the Bourbon Hot Dogs Bites, another ingenious improvisation. The combo of salty crunch with tangy-sweet barbecue sauce made it a fine and folksy foodie finale for the Village Blend’s big night.

  At last, Gard and his friends played “’Round Midnight” with Punch re-creating Ella Fitzgerald’s moving vocals. Then everyone called it a night, although by now it was ’round four in the morning.

  As my New York staff headed for our Cox’s Row crash pad, their raucous descent echoed down our staircase . . .

  “Esther, why are you complaining?” Joy asked. “At least you’ve got Boris to cuddle up with. I wish my boyfriend were here.”

  “Franco’s not here because he values his life,” Esther pointed out, “and if he tried to ‘cuddle up’ with you on N Street, your father would end him.”

  “Don’t remind me!” Joy cried. “I’ve been fighting the good fight for months now. If you ask me, my dad and Franco have too much in common. Anyway, Mrs. B.’s mansion is beautiful. And we’ll all be together—one big happy Blend family!”

  “You make us sound like the Brady Bunch. Or worse, the Waltons!”

  “What’s wrong with the Waltons?” Tuck called on the steps behind them. “It’s a great old American TV show. And it was set in Virginia—right next door.”

  “Oh, yes!” Punch agreed, still in silver sequins. “I’d adore being part of the Waltons. Can I be John-Boy?”

  “If anybody’s John-Boy, it’s Tuck,” Esther returned. “In that Gaga getup, you’ve got more in common with Mary Ellen.”

  “And with that attitude, you’re already the grouchy grandma.” Punch snapped his fingers. “As I recall, her name was Esther, too.”

  “Why you little—”

  “Whoa there, Granny!” Joy grabbed Esther’s arm before she went for Punch’s blond-bombshell wig. “Time to hit the road. Boris is waiting, remember? Good night, Daddy! Good night, Mama!”

  Esther waggled her fingers. “Good night, Mary Ellen. Goodnight, Tuck-Boy!”

  And the girls were gone.

  I thought Tuck and Punch would follow, at least to get in a few more verbal jabs, but instead they approached me and Matt at the coffee bar.

  “We have news!” Tuck announced.

  “A surprise!” Punch added.

  “Another surprise?” I threw a worried glance Matt’s way. “Your last one nearly knocked me over.”

  “You better lean on something, then, because this one’s even bigger . . .” Tuck pointed to Punch. “Drumroll, please.”

  Punch pounded two barstools as though they were bongos.

  Matt caught my eye. “Everything’s theater with these two.”

  “Exactly!” Tuck said. “We know how to attract an audience and keep them coming back. That’s why Gardner is on board for our big idea, which is . . .”

  “Torch Song Thursdays!” Punch announced.

  “Okay,” I said, “you’ve got my attention . . .”

  According to Tucker, they had set up the whole thing with Gardner, who happened to mention that our Thursdays were pathetically slow.

  “So we’ll come down from New York once a week to create a cabaret show for the Jazz Space. Punch is going to impersonate legendary divas: Billie, Ella, Sarah, Nina, Aretha, Diana, and, of course, Gaga!”

  “And, we’re going to reach out to gay DC. It will be fabulous!”

  “I promise, CC, when we get through with our social media outreach, your Thursday nights are going to be packed!”

  “Not bad.” Matt lifted an eyebrow. “And I thought your idea was going to be a drag.”

  “Oh, sweetie, it will! The hottest drag on the eastern seaboard . . .” Punch pinched his cheek. “Still so cute.”

  “And still so straight.”

  Punch shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  Apparently, the upstairs brainstorming wasn’t limited to diva impersonations. Gard’s group lobbied for “Funky Fridays” with guest sets that focused on a broader spectrum of the jazz world—rhythm and blues, soul, and danceable retro covers of artists like Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, and the Motown songbook.

  “You’ll get a bigger sampling of bands and the general public coming in with that mix,” Tuck promised.

  Matt shot me a glance. “And with our new chef and menu that public might actually enjoy the table minimums.”

  I checked my watch and smiled. Yep. It really is a new day . . .

  Though I invited them both to sit down for coffee, Tuck and Punch were ready to hit the hay.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Tuck said, turning around. “I have something for you—”

  “Another surprise?”

  “You wish. But it’s just a boring old flash drive.”

  I took the small red rectangle from him. It looked like a standard memory drive that held computer files. But why give it to me?

  “Punch and I found it upstairs,” Tuck said. “We thought it might be digital music—you know, the kind you plug into an electronic keyboard. But when we looked at it, the only thing on there were government text files.”

  “Did they list an owner?”

  Tuck shook his head. “There’s only one folder. It’s labeled U.S. Senate E-mails. We read a few—they look like correspondence involving the President, back when he was a senator.”

  I stifled a yawn. “I’m supposed to meet with the White House Curator this week. I’ll give it to her. I’m sure she can find out who it belongs to—”

  “Fine, but you should also know—”

  “Come on, Tuck-Boy!” Punch called from the door. “This little Walton is bushed.”

  “Keep your panties on, Mary Ellen!” Tucker cried.

  “It’s okay, Tuck, go on. I’ll see you later this morning.”

  Nodding, he headed out, pausing at the door to throw a special wink our way. “Good night, Mama! Good night, Daddy! Sleep tight . . .”

  Sixty-eight

  “THAT flash drive,” Quinn interrupted. “You told me all about that before Abby went missing.”

  “I did. But when Tuck handed it to me, I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “Well, it can’t help us now, so there’s no use trying to dodge the rest of the story.”

  “You don’t want to talk about the flash drive?”

  “No. I’m waiting for details on the other part—the part about sleeping with your ex.”

  “Oh, that.”

  Quinn folded his arms. “Let me help jog that memory of yours: Tucker and Punch leave; and the musicians leave; and there you are, all alone in the closed shop with Mr. Java Hunter. Is that about right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Believe me, I did tell Matt to hit the road—and the sack. But he refused to go . . .”

  * * *

  “DRUNKS are still out there, wandering the neighborhood,” Matt argued. “I am not leavin
g you here alone.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said, “but my decision’s made. I’m pulling an all-nighter . . .”

  “Because?”

  “The whole staff is exhausted, and I need to make sure this relaunched shop reopens at seven AM, without a hitch. All the beds are taken at N Street, anyway, and Quinn’s across town.”

  “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” Matt pressed. “My offer to share a bed still stands. I’ll wake you up in time—and I’ll keep my hands to myself. Promise.”

  “Promise?” I nearly laughed. “And you expect me to believe you?”

  “Well . . . we are in Washington.”

  Shaking my head, I headed for the kitchen with zombielike determination.

  With Abby’s performance hitting the morning news, we were sure to be swamped again. And while my baker agreed to increase our order, she wouldn’t deliver till eight.

  The empty pastry case needed a solution.

  We were out of blueberries, so I checked our cornmeal supply. We’d eighty-sixed the herbed polenta on the old Hopkins menu, but Luther’s Cheddar-Corn Spoon Bread had been a heavenly hit, and—yes!—there was just enough cornmeal left for a big batch of my Breakfast Corn Muffins!

  Feeling relieved, I returned to the front and found Matt behind the counter.

  “What are you doing?”

  “If you refuse to get some shut-eye, at least get off your feet for thirty minutes together.” He guided me to the banquette on the far side of the room and gently pushed me down—

  “Sit. Rest.”

  This time, I didn’t argue. The cushions felt like clouds under my tired bones, and my aching feet were thrilled I’d gotten off them. Matt was right, it was nice to sit still in the quiet shop.

  “What’s that?” I asked, as he approached with a tray bearing cups and a French press.

  “This is the Sulawesi that we brought down today. I followed your roasting instructions, and I think it’s perfect. But you never took time to sample it.”