Dead to the Last Drop (25 page)

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 . . .”

S
ixty-seven

“C
LARE, 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 . . .”

S
ixty-eight

“T
HAT 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 . . .”

*   *   *

“D
RUNKS are still out there, wandering the neighborhood,” Matt argued. “I am not leaving 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.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Oh, better than fine. But if it’s not, I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“That’s my job, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Which is why you deserve this . . .” From out of nowhere, Matt produced a single long-stemmed rose. “Abby wasn’t the only one who gave a virtuoso performance last night.”

“Thanks, but our success was a product of
cooperative
improv.”

“Every band needs someone to form them, inspire them. And every
successful business needs someone to care. This week, partner, that someone was you.”

He dipped the flower to my nose. Like our newfound success, the fragrance was sweet—with a nod, I accepted it. Then Matt poured our coffees and we toasted the turning point for our DC shop.

Matt was right about something else. His Sulawesi was excellent.

One of the best coffees on the planet, it had a clean brightness yet unusual depth and complexity. Layers of flavors delighted the senses, from the tantalizing tingle on the tongue to the floral sweetness in the rising aroma. He handled the roast superbly, protecting the almost supernaturally low acidity. There wasn’t a trace of bitterness.

I wish I could say the same about this evening . . .

Unlike the Sulawesi, however, some bitterness lingered. And Matt knew it.

“So . . . are you going to talk to me?”

“About what?”

“Clare, I know you. You’re not running around just to prep the place for morning business. You’re upset.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me anyway. What could it hurt? It might even help.”

“Okay,” I said, too tired argue. “Two things are bothering me. And the first is the worst: Tad Hopkins.”

S
ixty-nine

“H
OPKINS? The man who accused you of stealing? That ass of a chef is gone. Why waste brain cells worrying about him?”

“Because it was Hopkins who released the truth about Abby. And the result was more success than Gardner and I dreamed possible.”

“So?”

“So wouldn’t you feel terrible if you saw all this success as a result of your actions? Yet you didn’t earn a dime from it? Or receive one bit of credit?”

“Clare, Hopkins released that information without Abby’s permission. He didn’t deserve to benefit from what came of it. And, anyway, some member of the press or public would have recognized Abby eventually. The news was bound to get out. Hopkins simply speeded up the process—for his own selfish benefit.”

“I didn’t think of it that way . . .”

“See?”

“The problem is—Hopkins won’t, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Hopkins is arrogant and spiteful. The
least
he’s going to do is sue us.”

“Mother’s lawyer will handle that, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried about a day in court. I’m worried about the kind of person who doesn’t care about court . . . or the law . . . or what’s right. I’m worried about a person who sees himself as wronged and fixates on revenge. And I’m not just worried about what Hopkins might do to us. What if he decides to take his rage out on Abby?”