Dead to the Last Drop (18 page)

As a quiet college student, Abigail Prudence Parker was nearly anonymous. Few people cared what she did. But all this publicity now made our “Abby Lane” a target—for crackpots, enemies of the President (foreign and domestic), maybe even terrorists. And over the next few hours, that publicity became overwhelming.

As Cage predicted, the news of the First Daughter’s jazz show hit the twenty-four-hour TV cable cycle. Network vans pulled up with satellite dishes, and well-known correspondents started interviewing members of the public in front of our coffeehouse.

Our queue was alarmingly long now,
far
past the velvet ropes. It snaked all the way down to Blues Alley, where these sorts of lines were usually seen—
near showtime
.

But Abby’s performance was still eight hours away, and the mob of locals and tourists flowing into and out of our coffeehouse—excited to drink down our roasts and gobble up our pastries—was making me nervous.

All it takes is one nut with a bomb or a gun . . .

I tried not to think about that, but the idea made me view every single customer in a different light, and I began to get a clue why Sharon Cage was such a hard case.

When she came back out to the coffeehouse floor, I was on my third attempt to contact our freelance baker, but my calls kept going to voice mail, which meant she was probably busy with an on-site wedding cake assembly.

“Looks like we’ll have to refill the pastry case ourselves,” I told Gardner.

“How about those Best Blueberry Muffins you brought to our greenroom last week? They were fantastic.”

(I called them “Best” not because they were the most elaborate, but because the recipe was one I used all the time. With little fuss and few ingredients, it produced amazing results—juicy berries packed into a vanilla-lemon crumb with the tender texture of scratch pound cake.)

“I’ll give Chef Bell my recipe . . .”

“And what about those Honey-Glazed Donuts he makes for the staff? Can’t he fry up a giant batch for the customers? Maybe with chocolate glaze, too?”

“Sounds like a foodie plan—”

“Cosi!”

Sharon Cage’s barking voice continued to take a bite out of my central nervous system. After waving me to the side of the coffee bar, she began to share her plan, too, but it didn’t involve fresh blueberries, and she was in no mood to honey glaze it.

As she rattled off her daunting to-do list, I could hear professional pride (and a little sadistic mirth) in her tone.

“At one o’clock sharp, Abigail will arrive with her Secret Service escorts. She plans to rehearse with her band and then rest in your greenroom before the show. Once she goes up there, we’re sealing the second and third floors. Nobody but you and select members of your staff will be permitted upstairs until you’re ready to seat the audience.”

“Okay, got it.”

“In the meantime, beginning at noon and continuing until everything is wrapped and our asset is safely off these premises, we’ll be conducting constant security sweeps and perimeter checks around your building. We’ve placed magnetometers at the front and back doors. And if warranted, we’ll search anyone suspicious who wishes to come in. We might even check for shoe bombs.”

I took a breath. “Look, I have an idea for you. One the NYPD uses for Times Square every New Year’s Eve. I think it will work for our situation.”

And maybe make our coffeehouse a little less intimidating than Checkpoint Charlie.

“I’m listening,” she said.

F
orty-seven

“T
HE shops around us close early on Saturday,” I began, “so why not seal off the entire block a few hours before the show? You can screen everyone who goes in, and once they’re inside your controlled space, people can move freely. That will be far more comfortable for everyone.”

“What about the line of customers you have now?”

“Gardner worked out a ticketing system. We’ve reserved fifty seats for the loyal customers who’ve already registered with us over the past few months, which means we can pass out seventy-five premium vouchers to people already in line—it’s up to them to go to our website and fill out our membership registration. It costs five dollars, but it comes with a free drink and a year’s access to the Jazz Space’s live streaming. A good deal. Then they can pay for the show ticket with a credit card, show the voucher to get in, and we can check their photo ID and card against the registered, paid-up names.”

“Seventy-five tickets isn’t very many,” Cage pointed out, “and you’ve got a very long line out there.”

“That’s why we’re going to sell
second-tier
seating on this floor. We’ll put speakers and a big-screen monitor down here in the coffeehouse and offer our full Jazz Space menu.

“Finally, our
third-tier
tickets won’t be allowed to enter the building, but they can be part of the event by listening to the concert through outdoor speakers and buy drinks and snacks at a food stand we’ll set up outside.”

Cage fell silent a moment. “I like that everyone with a ticket has to register with a name, address, and credit card—and show a photo ID to
enter the secure perimeter. That alone will help us eliminate most of the problematic people.”

“Problematic people?”

“Criminals, troublemakers, crackpots.”

“Don’t they have addresses and credit cards, too?”

“They also have records, and we’ll know that up front.”

“What about the crackpots who don’t have records?”

“
That’s
why we have the magnetometers and bomb-sniffing dogs. But what I like most about your plan is the large perimeter. If we block off the street, we won’t have to worry about random traffic passing through, and Abby will be as safe as we can make her.”

Cage gave me a grudging half smile. “Yeah, Cosi, we’re in agreement.”

“On everything but the terminology.”

“Excuse me?”

“Feel free to call it a secure perimeter. But I’m going to call it a
Village Blend
Block Party
.”

“Call it what you like. Just be sure to reserve some of those upstairs tickets for the White House—ten seats.”

I swallowed hard. “Are the President and First Lady coming?”

“No. They’re committed to another engagement, but I’m sure they’ll watch some of Abby’s performance, like most everyone else, via the live stream on your website.”

“Then who are the tickets for?”

“The deputy press secretary. She’s bringing a press pool reporter and photographer, some White House staff, and a few media VIPs.”

“Hey, Sharon!”

I turned to see Agent Sharpe striding up to his boss.

“We have a problem at the front door.” He spoke low. “The man claims he works here, but he’s not on the employment roster, so we’ve detained him.

“Point him out,” Cage demanded.

“It’s that guy with the mop of dark hair and neo-pioneer beard. He won’t let us search his backpack. Instead he made some crack about ‘jackbooted fascists.’”

I followed Agent Sharpe’s pointing finger, past a few women in the crowd whose heads had already been turned by the athletic, olive-skinned figure with shoulders broad enough to fill up most of the front doorway along with his torso-hugging
Cup of Excellence, Guatemala!
T-shirt.

His jeans were worn and his right wrist displayed a glittering Breitling chronometer; his left a multicolored tribal bracelet made from braided strips of Ecuadorian leather.

Nearly as tall as the two agents flanking him, he must have felt our stares, because his hairy head turned, and his expressive brown eyes caught mine. After a beat, he slung his leather jacket over one shoulder and, with a half-amused expression, cocked his head.

“The guy’s backpack is covered with airport stickers from all over the Third World,” Agent Sharpe continued. “Hellholes like Rwanda, Colombia, and Indonesia. He’s trouble, for sure. He even looks like an international terrorist—”

“Why, Agent Sharpe,” I cut in, “I’m shocked,
shocked
at your prejudiced profiling.”

Agent Cage frowned. “What are you talking about, Cosi?”

I pointed at the bearded, shaggy detainee. “That’s no terrorist. That’s my ex-husband!”

F
orty-eight

A
FTER clearing Matt through security, I pulled him to a quieter section of the coffeehouse floor.

“I’m glad to see you, but what I said was SOS—as in send our
staff
!”

“Take it easy, Clare. Joy’s here to assist Chef Bell.”

“Where is she?”

“Getting her chef’s jacket from the luggage. She and Mother took the bags straight to the N Street house where you’re staying.”

“Your mother came, too?”

“Are you kidding? After you yelled SOS, I couldn’t keep her off the plane.”

“Who else?”

“Tuck and Punch will help with service. They’re driving my van down with Esther and Boris, and fifty-plus pounds of freshly roasted coffee beans—”

“Which beans?”

He studied the ceiling. “The Yirg, more Sumatra, that primo Toraja Sulawesi—”

“
Tell me
you remembered my warning on roasting that Sulawesi?”

“Sure, I remembered. My batch cupped beautifully.”

“We’ll see. What else?”

“The Guatemalan micro-lot, and I got you the Kona.”

“Extra Fancy?”

“Of course.”

“Really? Oh, Matt, I could kiss you!”

“Sounds good to me.” He grinned. “Now? Or later?”

“Figure of speech, Allegro.”

“Hey, you know me. I’m always ready to pucker up.”

“And that’s precisely why our marriage didn’t last.”

“You didn’t get enough kisses?”

“No. You applied your philosophy
globally
.”

Just then, Agent Sharpe’s deep, authoritative voice caught my attention as it rose above the crowd. “Yes, Ms. Cosi is here.” He pointed. “There she is!”

“Mom!”

Sharpe stepped clear, and I saw my daughter.

Matt beamed, watching us race to each other across the crowded shop. After our tight hug, I stepped back to get a better look at my baby. Okay, not exactly a baby anymore, but in my daughter’s heart-shaped face, warm peach complexion, and lively green eyes, I’d always see that first baby smile and those first baby steps, even the first meal she made—a Mother’s Day breakfast of ricotta pancakes and coffee—with a little help from her father.

After a few minutes catching up, she pulled her wavy chestnut hair into a work-ready ponytail and announced—

“I better get into that kitchen!”

“Go ahead, honey. I’ll be right there.”

And she was off again, striding through the swinging doors with the kind of confidence that comes only from experience.

Before I even knew my lips were moving, I heard myself saying, “I’m so proud of her . . .”

Joy may have inherited her father’s height—and fearlessness—but from me she got her stubborn streak, which, I admit, made her hard to handle in her teen years, but it served her well in adulthood.

It was Joy’s stubbornness that kept her from quitting after being expelled from her Manhattan culinary school. And when her grandmother arranged a lowly position in Paris, she dug in, tirelessly working until she’d proven herself with that male-dominated kitchen brigade. She’d not only risen in their ranks, but earned their respect, contributing dishes to the menu that helped Les Deux Perroquets earn its first-ever Michelin star.

That star had become Joy’s ultimate goal while in Paris, and I was relieved she’d achieved it before moving back to New York.

With my move to DC, she knew her family needed her, so she’d agreed to pitch in and help Matt run our busy Greenwich Village coffeehouse.

But the family business wasn’t Joy’s only reason for her return home. A
certain young, streetwise NYPD detective had used his influence to entice her back, as well. His name was Emmanuel Franco and for reasons too numerous to mention, including Matt’s animosity toward anyone with a badge, Joy’s father couldn’t stand the sight of him.

But that was another battle, for another day.

“I’m proud of her, too,” Matt assured me. “And I’m glad we’re working together . . .” He looked away a moment, gaze going inward. “I missed a lot of years . . . you know, as her father.”

“I know.”

“So it’s been nice having this time with her. And I know she’s enjoying the break.”

“Break?”

“That Paris kitchen was a pressure cooker, Clare. She says compared to that, coming back to Greenwich Village has been a vacation . . .”

The revelation worried me. Matt made it sound like Joy was planning to return to Paris.

And there it was again—that familiar ripping down my middle, half of me wanting to give my daughter the freedom to do as she pleased; the other half desperately wanting her to stay close to home, close to me.

“Oh, and speaking of our New York shop,” Matt blithely went on, “Tuck and Punch are bringing down a surprise.”

“Surprise? What kind of surprise?”

“I don’t know. Hence the word
surprise
. They said you and Gardner should be thrilled. Speaking of which, did you know Mother’s putting the whole gang up at your temporary digs?”

“On N Street? Tell me you’re kidding.”

F
orty-nine

“D
ON’T worry. Mother brought her maid along so you won’t have to deal with linens and towels and getting everyone settled into all those bedrooms—”

“Six,” I pointed out. “There are six bedrooms—and eight guests, nine if you count me. Ten if you count Mike.”

“Quinn?” Matt shook his shaggy head. “Tell the flatfoot to find another place to crash.”

I felt awful kicking Quinn out—especially after promising the man a rain check on our ruined morning. “Does he really have to bunk back at his apartment? It’s all the way across town.”

“We’re a full house tonight, Clare. Joy even recruited an old friend from culinary school. She’s coming down in the van, too—”

“That’s
more
than a full house!”

“I guess some of us will have to double up.” Matt arched a dark eyebrow. “How about it? You and me? For old times’ sake?”