Dead to the Last Drop
Page 27
Finally, the pièce de résistance: on the courtesy table next to the urn, we’d placed three hundred personalized Thomas Jefferson coffee mugs, each inscribed with a guest’s name and the Founding Father’s famous quote—
Coffee, the favorite drink of the civilized world.
It was certainly true tonight. So many famous faces were here from politics and pop culture, it was hard not to be starstruck. And so many approached me to compliment the coffee that I felt like Dorothy opening her eyes to find the world in Technicolor.
Despite the glitter of the room and the glamour of party dresses and evening jackets, I was still struggling to keep one ferocious worry at bay.
I thought by tonight all my anxieties over Mr. Varma’s secret flash drive would have been “uploaded” to the possession of Sergeant Price of the DC Metro PD. Unfortunately, that never happened, and I’d found out why only a few hours ago . . .
* * *
IT was early afternoon when the Village Blend’s van pulled up to the museum’s loading dock. The Secret Service advance team was already conducting sweeps in anticipation of the presidential visit, and I was helping Tito and Freddie unload dollies of our fresh-baked Double-Chocolate Espresso Cupcakes and thermal containers of our No-Churn Coffee Ice Cream.
As the two young men pushed the goodies into the depths of the museum, I stepped outside for a breath of cool spring air. Releasing my messy ponytail, I was happy to spot a familiar face—
“Officer Landry!” I waved. “Over here.”
Patrolman Landry and another young uniformed cop had been wrestling police barricades into place. Landry signaled his buddy that he was taking five. Boyish dimples flashing, he hustled over to greet me.
“Hey there, Ms. Cosi . . .” He pointed to my bulky chef jacket. “I hardly recognized you without those curves.”
Oh, brother, here we go. “Sorry to disappoint you, but nobody works on a loading dock wearing a Fen halter dress . . .”
Actually, I couldn’t wait to put it on. Made of a luxurious deep blue silk, the garment’s V neckline flowed to a fitted waist with a full skirt that skimmed flatteringly over my full hips (hiding a multitude of sins, including one too many “samples” of Luther’s brownies). The beautiful draping continued into an offbeat yet elegant asymmetrical hem. Sheer, nude hose finished the outfit, along with that simple string of pearls my daughter gave me—and my new strappy heels were killer, too.
Landry grinned. “Is that what you’ll be wearing later? Because I’m going to be on external security all night. I’d like a look at that!”
“Okay, now you’re just fishing for free coffee.”
“Hey, I wouldn’t say no to a cup, especially if you’re pouring. Like I told you already, I love older ladies. You know what you want and you go for it—”
“And here’s what I want from you, Officer: information. I’ve left several messages for Sergeant Price, asking him to stop by my coffeehouse, but he hasn’t come by or returned my calls.”
Landry rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, Ms. Cosi, I’ll be honest. I’m not sure I should tell you why . . .”
“I think you’d better. I have new evidence concerning the Jeevan Varma case . . .”
Ninety-five
LANDRY scratched his head. “What sort of evidence?”
I glanced around the loading dock. A few Secret Service agents were loitering nearby, but none were paying attention to us. Still, I stepped closer to Landry and lowered my voice.
“I’m holding Mr. Varma’s flash drive with e-mails he deleted from the State Department servers. The White House Curator, Helen Trainer, is willing to make a statement explaining why that’s important. If the sergeant is scheduled for external security, we can get this over with tonight.”
“Sorry. Price isn’t scheduled to be here. But if it’s any help, I can file the evidence and ask the detectives to follow up.”
“Detectives?”
“Yes, Ms. Cosi, the sergeant . . . well, he . . .”
The young officer hesitated again.
“Come on, spill it,” I pressed, and then, though I hated doing it, I flashed Landry that smile I’d used on him the first night we met. “Please . . .”
“Oh, all right . . .” Landry lowered his voice. “Price mentioned that cook of yours. The one who used to work for you? The guy must be holding one terrible grudge. I’m sure that’s why he gave the statement he did.”
“What statement?”
Landry paused again. “Did you say something about free coffee?”
“Of course! You and the other officers are more than welcome to enjoy my coffee tonight.”
“Good deal. Okay, here’s the scoop. Your ex-cook told Price that you’re a liar and a thief. He said not to trust what you say. He said you’ve been stealing from the business and he caught you, which is why you fired him . . .”
That son of a . . . “Chef Tad Hopkins is the liar. And the thief. I need to explain that. And I have witnesses.”
“You’ll get your chance. Sergeant Price turned the case over to the detective squad. They’ll be following up on his leads.”
“How do I contact these detectives?”
“The case has to be assigned. Then they’ll come to you. You better warn your witnesses. They shouldn’t leave town.”
“Don’t worry, my people will be available whenever the detectives want to speak with them. And Helen Trainer works in the White House. She’s not going anywhere.”
Just then, Landry’s partner whistled and waved him over.
“Got to go,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “And tell your fellow officers that I’ll have a coffee urn set up for self service. Go in through this dock, use the stairs or elevator, slip into the hall, and you’ll see it.”
“Okay, I’ll spread the word.” Landry paused and gave me that look again, that hot MILK look. “How about I give you a ride home? After the party?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I have a ride—and a boyfriend.”
“Hey, it was worth a try . . .” Dimpled smile still flashing, he strode away.
I kept smiling, too, but I wasn’t happy.
With homicide detectives about to be assigned to Jeevan Varma’s case, things were getting serious. Chef Hopkins was out to get me, and Helen Trainer was the only witness to my version of these strange events.
Along with Abby and Stan, a little voice reminded me.
I didn’t want to involve the President’s daughter, and I vowed to keep her out of this for as long as I could. But if it came down to defending myself in a real murder charge, I might have no choice.
Ninety-six
A few hours later, Flag Hall was lit up and so was my ex-husband.
“Great party,” Matt said, sidling up to me.
My Coffee Hunter business partner looked exceedingly sharp in his designer evening jacket, black beard trimmed, hair-bush slicked into a neat ponytail.
Although the buffet table wouldn’t open until the First Family arrived, the aromas now emanating from the area piqued everyone’s appetite, including mine.
In addition to selections from our popular Jazz Space menu, Luther and Joy were preparing to serve succulent sliders of my Cherry and Port–Glazed Pork Tenderloin on fresh-baked Parker House Rolls; Breaded Chicken Tenders with Luther’s Carolina Sweet Mustard BBQ Dipping Sauce; Creamy Casserole Cups of Pennsylvania Dutch Noodles with Diced Pieces of Smoked Virginia Ham; and my own secret recipe of Coffee-Glazed Barbecued Chicken Drumsticks.
In the meantime, my waitstaff moved among dozens of tall tables draped with white cloths, offering guests canapés and champagne as well as sweets and espresso shots from silver trays.
Matt nabbed one of Luther’s Bourbon Street Brownies—rich chocolate, good Kentucky bourbon, and a kiss of French roast to deepen the flavor of the go
urmet chocolate.
“Oh, baby, these are sinful,” he murmured, mouth half-full. “And speaking of things that give me pleasure, I’m lovin’ that new dress of yours, Clare, especially the neckline.”
“Then perhaps you should try looking at it, and not down it.”
“Hey, don’t knock therapy.”
“Therapy?!”
“Looking at a woman’s cleavage prolongs a man’s life. It’s a scientific fact.”
“Have you been drinking? I mean, something other than coffee?”
“I’m not kidding. The report was published by the New England Journal of Medicine from research conducted in Germany.”
“And it sounds like something thought up in a beer hall.”
“I’m proud to say I was way ahead of those scientists. My study of cleavage began at a tender age, and I’d rate yours in the top ten percentile.”
“Okay, enough . . .”
I really wasn’t bothered by my ex-husband. It was just Matt being Matt. But right now, his attention to that particular part of my anatomy reminded me all too abundantly that I was catering a party full of politicians, pundits, and press, not to mention the President himself, with a flash drive full of stolen state secrets pinned to my lace-trimmed Victoria’s Secret.
For days, I’d been looking over my shoulder, wondering if I was being watched. I looked twice at every customer and three times at loitering pedestrians with sunglasses.
What next? Deep Throat?
Then the preparations for the party went into high gear, including a three-day roasting trip back up to New York, and I’d put the paranoia aside. But now I was back, anxious again, the flash drive still cozied up to my private parts.
“So what about it?” Matt waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to prolong my life?”
“Will you stop already? What would you say if I walked up to you and announced that looking at your private parts would prolong my life . . . Wait! Don’t answer that!”
“Are you sure? Because I’m happy to drop drawers in the name of preventive medicine.”
“Please, Allegro, keep your pants on. And the next time you have an espresso-tini, leave out the tini.”
“I swear, I haven’t touched a drop. I’m drunk with happiness.”
“Hum.”
“It’s true! Tonight the President and First Lady will drink coffee I sourced, made from beans you roasted in my family’s landmark shop. My amazing daughter is preparing food for Washington’s elite. My mother is across the room charming the Speaker of the House and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, and our new Jazz Space is the talk of DC.”
“Yet your gaze appears to be missing the big picture.”
Matt leaned in again. “Not from this perspective.”
Shaking my head, I waved over a familiar face—an intelligent man with an air of gentility whose decorum and sensitivity might give Matt an example to follow.
Ninety-seven
“HELLO, Ms. Cosi. Excellent service tonight.”
A smiling Bernie Moore raised his personalized coffee mug. “And this blend is outstanding. Some of the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.”
Matt’s ego, sufficiently inflated, flashed the man a friendly grin. “Who is your incredibly discerning friend, Clare?”
After quick introductions, I faced the music critic. Beneath his black suit, he wore an open-collared black shirt à la Johnny Cash, his white ponytail and trimmed beard a striking yet attractive contrast.
“So how did you wrangle an invitation to this?” I asked. “Are you a big donor to the museum or President Parker’s reelection campaign?” Dozens of the latter were here tonight.
“I’m with the band . . .”
He paused to pick up a goodie from a passing tray—one of my “Hawaiian” Chocolate Chip Cookies, loaded with macadamia nuts and sprinkled with hand-chopped, chocolate-covered Kona coffee beans. Then he tipped his head to the museum’s resident ensemble, the Jazz Masterworks Orchestra.
“Did you know the U.S. Congress funds those guys?”
“Why is that?”
“Because they’re a living museum, charged with ‘presenting and perpetuating the legacy of jazz in American culture.’ They’re a tight group, too, and . . .” Bernie’s grin widened after he sampled my cookie. “Oh, man, this is incredibly good. Anyway,” he said between more contented bites, “I promised the band if they got me in, I’d write about the gig.”
As the room’s shifting light changed from ivory to electric blue, Bernie’s white beard and ponytail seemed to glow in contrast. His olive complexion appeared darker, too, and I noticed small white scars along his hairline.
“I was hoping to see you, Ms. Cosi,” Bernie admitted. “Do you know if Abby’s coming tonight? Is she going to perform?”
“Please, call me Clare. I know Abby’s on the guest list, and I’m hoping she comes, but I doubt she’ll play.”
He nodded, smile disappearing. “I suspected as much, after that debacle on television—”
Before he could say more, we were interrupted by a high-spirited call.
“Clare! I didn’t know you liked men with beards! And here you are, with two of them!”
It was Helen Hargood Trainer, waving at me from ten yards away. Lifting a sloshing champagne glass over her head, she wended her way through the crowd.
Helen looked chic tonight in a midnight black designer gown with silver trim. Her hair was done up in a sleek chignon, silver hair comb and earrings shimmering against her dark locks.
“Oh, I just love men with beards!” Her gaze ping-ponged from Matt to Bernie, who seemed especially entertained by the attention.
“Did you know that only five Presidents wore beards?” Helen asked after I made quick introductions. “Four of them were veterans of the Civil War. But Lincoln was the first to enter the White House with a beard—and it wasn’t even his idea! While he was running for the presidency, a young girl wrote to him. She’s the one who suggested the craggy lines of his face needed facial hair.”
“A beard can hide more than a few flaws,” Bernie agreed.
“And you can’t shave in the tropics,” Matt added.
“That’s true in the desert, too,” Bernie said. “In the wild areas of the world, beards are not a fashion statement.”
“Ulysses ‘Unconditional Surrender’ Grant was the second President with a beard.”
“Is that so?” Bernie said, snagging one of our Boston Cream Pie Cupcakes (for tonight’s theme, I’d kissed the chocolate glaze with a hint of espresso).
Once again, Bernie made yummy sounds.
Helen pointed to the dessert. “Did you know the Boston Cream Pie was invented at the very hotel where Jack Kennedy proposed to Jackie? The Parker House restaurant—they invented the famous rolls, too. Table 40 is where he asked her. He got down on one knee to present her with the ring, a custom-made emerald and diamond of nearly three carats each with baguette cut diamond accents.”
Bernie smiled as he finished his cupcake. “You must be a historian, Mrs. Trainer. Or do you harbor a secret ambition to appear on Jeopardy!?”
Helen’s light mood changed. She drained her champagne glass. “I’m the curator of the White House, but I don’t know how much longer I want the job.”
Helen signaled Freddie and grabbed a replacement bubbly from his tray.
“I probably shouldn’t mention this, but you have to hear it, Clare.” Helen leaned close. “I came into work this morning and found my office had been searched. Nothing extreme, but I noticed little things had been tampered with. My computer was on, too, and I always shut it down.”
Helen sipped her champagne, looking at me over her glass. “Only one file was missing.”
I touched my heart, and Helen nodded.
She got the message. I still have the flash drive . . .
She took a final gulp that finished the bubbly.
Bernie leaned close. “If I may ask, how did you help Abby?”
“I found out the truth about her father,” she replied.
“Helen,” I warned, “we shouldn’t talk about this here.”
“You’re right. Why ruin the evening?” She looked at Bernie. “But I do love this man’s beard. It reminds me so much of my late husband’s—” Then Helen surprised us all by reaching out and touching his cheek.
Blinking in surprise at her own bold gesture, she glanced down at her still-empty glass. “I need another drink. Something stronger!”
Bernie chivalrously offered his arm. “Let’s find the bar together.”
“Helen, wait,” I pleaded. “We have to talk. It’s important.”
I have to tell her about Sergeant Price turning the case over to detectives!
But Helen waved me off as she and Bernie melted into the crowd. “Catch me later, Clare. I’m not going anywhere until I sample that buffet . . .”
“She was fun,” Matt quipped. Then he patted my shoulder. “I’ll check on Joy in the kitchen, see if she needs any help.”
“Thanks . . .”
I was about to recheck the Jefferson urn when I noticed a contingent of Secret Service agents enter Flag Hall and spread out all over the room, covering every door and exit.
Among them I spied Agent Sharpe, exhibiting a rare smile at his post as a svelte woman flirted with him. Her strawberry blond hair was pinned up, the better to show off her long neck and stunning scarlet gown with its sexy plunging back. Her silhouette looked familiar and when she turned in profile, I realized it was Mike’s boss, Katerina Lacey.
Curious, I observed her easy banter with Agent Sharpe. It was more than friendly. You didn’t invade personal space that closely unless you wanted to flirt—or intimidate.