Dead to the Last Drop (15 page)

I mentioned Teddy Roosevelt’s love of coffee: “His custom cup was so big that one of his sons described it as ‘more in nature of a bathtub.’” And I explained how his children contributed to coffeehouse culture with their chain of New York coffeehouses.

Finally, I glanced again at the room’s magnificent wallpaper, which reminded me—

“Jacqueline Kennedy is famous for her White House restoration, but she changed more than the décor under this roof. The way she served coffee revolutionized the way men and women socialize here.”

“Really? How is that exactly?”

“It was Jackie who began the practice of mixing the sexes after state dinners. Prior to that men retired to one room for their coffee while women were sent to another—which consequently cut off the women from some of the most important discussions of the day. Jackie put an end to the coffee service segregation.”

“That’s truly fascinating!”

“Coffee was also a vital part of John F. Kennedy’s rise to the presidency. As a junior senator, he and Mrs. Kennedy invited influential people to coffees held in their Georgetown home. Those casual gatherings helped lift the young senator’s profile with the Washington establishment.”

The “sway of influence” story had further swayed the First Lady. She was more than impressed. She looked overjoyed.

As an afterthought, I told her that one of the coffee services Mrs. Kennedy used during that period was something I admired every day.

“Pardon me?” Mrs. Parker leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

“I’m living temporarily on Cox’s Row, in Mrs. Bittmore-Black’s Georgetown mansion. Mrs. Kennedy was a lifelong friend and gifted one of her silver services to the former ambassador. It sits beautifully in the dining room, on top of a sideboard that once served Abraham Lincoln.”

“Outstanding, Clare!” Mrs. Parker clapped her hands. “Of course,
everyone
knows Mrs. Bittmore-Black. The former ambassador has impeccable taste! Oh, this is all going to work perfectly. Just perfectly!”

“Excuse me? What exactly is going to work perfectly?”

“The Smithsonian is mounting an exhibition on coffee in America. It seems to me that
you
would be the perfect expert advisor.”

I blinked. “Mrs. Parker, I’m certainly honored”—
shocked was more like it
—“but I’m hardly a historian.”

“You’ve proven your expertise
to me
. I’ll have you work with the White House Curator on her end of the project:
Coffee and the Presidency.
You two can work together. What you don’t know, Mrs. Trainer probably does. I can’t wait to see what you and Helen come up with!” Her gaze speared me again. “How about a conference call with her early next week?”

“That will be fine,” I said, surrendering to the unstoppable force that was Mrs. Elizabeth Noland Parker. “Whatever is convenient for the curator.”

The First Lady waved a finger at her female assistant in navy blue, who began tapping into a computer tablet.

I sat there, feeling bowled over—or more like
steamrolled
over.

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“You’ve already said
yes
, so there’s no need to talk anymore about it. Ah! I see Abigail has finally decided to join us . . .”

T
hirty-eight

I
was relieved to hear that Abby was joining us—and anxious to see her familiar, smiling face.

Except I didn’t.

Entering the room was a frowning young woman in a starched white blouse, hair pulled into a tight, high ponytail, its black color nearly obliterated by a large pink bow that matched her knee-length skirt.

A friend of Abby’s?

A second look and I realized this girl
was
Abby—or rather, Abigail Prudence Parker, First Daughter of the President of the United States.

Gone were the black leggings and boots, replaced with nude hose and low-heeled sling-backs. Her face looked different, too. The purple eyeliner had been wiped off. And clear gloss replaced the dark lipstick.

Gloss over darkness . . .

The phrase whispered through me as I watched Abby robotically cross the room. With each step closer to her mother’s roaring fire, the light inside Abby’s eyes seemed to dim. Hands clutched in front of her, she bent low to kiss the First Lady’s cheek. Then she turned to greet me with a limp handshake and a formal “Ms. Cosi.”

Finally, as demurely as a choir girl, she positioned herself on a yellow damask wing chair between us. Hands on her knees in a perfect imitation of her mother, Abigail’s bland smile had less life than a corpse.

As we began to talk, I could tell the
other
Abby—the one I’d seen onstage at the Village Blend, even in our wild ride to the White House—was replaced
with some kind of Stepford Abby, complete with an engagement ring on her left hand.

That was the final shock. The diamond was as big as a Steinway, and just as loud.

More air-filling conversation ensued, then a stiff tour of the China Room, and we returned to find chairs and a table set for three had magically appeared in the center of the Diplomatic Reception Room.

The menu was very French, and everything was appetizing—the escargot in grass-fed garlic butter and the
poulet à l’estragon
. Dessert was a simple but elegant chocolate mousse served with thin, crisp chocolate-almond cookies reminiscent of the Kennedy White House
tuiles
.

When my Village Blend’s coffee was served, the First Lady actually gushed.

And I complimented the White House chef, who’d picked our sultry, full-bodied Krakatoa blend of Matt’s Sumatran- and Ethiopian-sourced beans (my own take on a Mocha-Java), with notes of cocoa, sweet dried cherry, and fresh-grated cinnamon that perfectly complemented the light chocolate dessert.

Through the entire meal, Abigail said hardly a word of her own. She answered her mother’s queries perfectly appropriately, but it was strange to see the Abby I knew nodding dutifully about designer bridal gown fittings and Rose Garden guest lists.

Finally the First Lady excused herself, and I watched a stranger named Abigail follow her mother through the oval room’s curved door.

She’s trapped in a Washington loop
, I thought.
Like those infernal traffic circles. And she can’t find a way out . . .

“There’s a car waiting to take you home.” Carol was at my shoulder, my apron once again draped over her arm. “I do hope you enjoyed your visit to the White House.”

*   *   *

T
HE ride back to the Village Blend was excruciatingly slow and decidedly cool, my driver a brooding Agent Cage, who was no doubt lamenting the fact that we’d be seeing a lot more of each other.

“Don’t forget your
apron
, Ms. Cosi,” Agent Cage taunted as she dropped me at the curb.

Reentering my coffeehouse, I wished for just one familiar, smiling face.

Be careful what you wish for.

Officer Tom Landry met me as I came through the front door.

“Hey, Clare, what’s up?”

In uniform and apparently on duty, Landry was not alone. Loitering near the door were a half-dozen other young cops—all watching us.

“We were wondering where you were,” Landry continued. “You slipped out of my net.”

“We?”

“I’ve been telling my boys how great your coffee is.”

I looked over the young cop’s shoulder.

From their whispers and elbowing, I doubted that was the only thing he’d been telling his boys.

“I
might
have also mentioned how hot the owner is.” He grinned.

“I appreciate the compliments, Officer. But shouldn’t you get back to policing? I’m certain there are still criminals out there, waiting to be caught.”

Landry shook his head. “Not until we have some of that coffee of yours.”

I yanked the folded apron off my shoulder and tied it into place. Then I beckoned the boys in blue to follow me to the coffee bar, where they lined up for me to serve them.

Tito eyed the police presence warily. “Everything
bene
, boss?”

“Yes, Tito, take a break—and
grazie
for covering.”

“Anytime.”

“By the way, you’re now an assistant manager.”

“I am?”

“Sì,”
I said, and in Italian explained that the promotion came with a raise. “We’ll talk more later, okay?”

“Okay!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together.
“Grazie! Grazie!”

Now Landry stepped up, and I waved him closer. “Have you heard any news about that poor man from the State Department?” I lowered my voice. “The man who collapsed upstairs last night?”

“Nothing came up in our morning briefing,” Landry said with a shrug, “so I figure he’s okay.” He studied me. “Hey, don’t worry, Clare, I’m sure all the guy really needed was a few pots of your coffee.”

“Thanks,” I said. But I
was
still worried.

The hospital wouldn’t give me any news on Mr. Varma, so I planned to
keep an eye out for the man. For one thing, I wanted to know why he’d come to our back door and what he meant about the truth and the President. Questioning Tito and my staff about serving him one too many was also on my to-do list.

In the meantime, I spent the next fifteen minutes filling coffee drink orders and ignoring grins and winks. Then Landry and his pals were on their way, and the shop was quiet at last.

A few customers were sipping lattes at tables near our front windows, but the counter was empty, so I began restocking and tidying up.

That’s when I heard the ominous
tap-tapping
behind me.

Fearing another run-in with our thumb-ringed chef, I clenched my fists and whirled to find Four on the Floor’s drummer, Stan McGuire.

Hoover cane in hand, the young vet stood at attention, waiting for mine.

“Hey, Stan, what can I get you?”

“A few minutes of your time, Ms. Cosi, if you can spare it.”

“Is anything wrong?”

“I’d like to speak with you privately. It’s about Abby . . .”

T
hirty-nine

“Y
OU were right to do what you did last night,” Stan blurted on a rapid-fire roll. “If the Secret Service found out that Abby gave them the slip, they’d come down so hard I would never see her again. That’s what they’re like . . .”

Stan and I were sitting at a quiet corner table.

With Kimberly back from her afternoon classes, I asked her to watch the counter so Stan and I wouldn’t be interrupted. Then I poured us fresh, hot coffees and put a plate of our Big Chewy Oatmeal Cookies in front of him. (Two textures of oatmeal was the secret to their café-style crispy yet chewy perfection, along with generous pinches of nutmeg and cinnamon and extra vanilla, all of which made them extra popular with our customers.)

When we first sat down, Stan was jumpy. It took him a minute to settle into his chair. He adjusted the Captain America eye patch he always wore, and tugged at his clothing. Finally, he leaned the cane against the table and opened up.

“If Abby’s mother found out what we’ve been doing, she’d probably ship her off for psychiatric care. She’s threatened Abby with that line before . . .”

The phrase
“what we’ve been doing”
echoed in my head. The words implied Abby and Stan had been slipping away from the Secret Service on a regular basis.

This alarmed me. But instead of hammering him on how many times they’d done it in the past, I decided it would be better for all of us to focus on the future.

“From now on, Stan, I know you’ll be smart. You wouldn’t want to lose the chance to have contact with Abby, right?”

“No, ma’am, I would not.” He rubbed his pug nose. “Anyway, I wanted to say thanks. Thanks a lot. You saved us both from a major FUBAR.”

During our exchange, his leg jerked back and forth. I knew from experience that if he were to catch himself and stop, he’d start to drum the table, because Stan was a compact bundle of raw energy. He reminded me of my ex-husband, Matt, both of whom were polar opposites to the tall, taciturn Mike Quinn.

The calm in Quinn—even in the most harrowing situations—astounded me. But it also confounded me. Most days I had to guess what the man was thinking. And over time, I’d learned that Quinn’s calm sometimes masked a slowly building storm.

With Stan (and Matt), there was never any effort to hide the storm. Their passions were raw and open. And they usually shared what they thought the very moment they thought it.

Even without both eyes visible to me, Stan’s lopsided yet likable face registered more emotion than most people I knew.

“What’s going on between you and Abby?” I probed.

“We’re close . . . I mean, we’re
friends
,” he said, too quickly. “She’s a great musician, a real talent in the making.”

“Seems to me there’s more than music going on between you.”

“Well, I care for her, if that’s what you mean.”

I sighed. It was not my place to tell Stan what I’d learned at the White House. The wedding was Abby’s news to tell. Still, I felt I should warn him—

“Be careful, okay? Remember who Abby is. She may be your friend, but she’s also Abigail Prudence Parker, the daughter of the President and First Lady. Please don’t forget or you could get hurt.”

He slapped his bad leg. “Too late for that!”

F
orty

S
TAN laughed and so did I.

I couldn’t help admiring the young vet’s ability to make light of his terrible injuries. It was easy to see how Abby had come to care for him.

“So how did you get into music, anyway?” I had wondered about that since he’d joined Gardner’s ensemble. “Soldier to jazz drummer seems an unlikely transition.”

“I was a musician before I was a solider, Ms. Cosi. Piano. Guitar. A little bit of saxophone, along with the drumming.”

“You studied?”

“I got plenty of lessons. Here and there. My dad made sure of that. I was an army brat. Every three years it was time to up and move. But no matter where I ended up, there was a school band, or someone was starting a band, or a student band at the base. That’s how I made friends, no matter the country.”