Dead to the Last Drop (34 page)

“Rose Mary Woods? President Nixon’s secretary? You think someone deleted the e-mails?”

“Yes. As I said, classified documents are redacted when they’re released, the sensitive information blacked out. But these e-mails weren’t redacted. They were missing completely.”

“What did you do next?”

“I contacted the Office of the CIO at the State Department with my concerns about the missing e-mails, and Mr. Jeevan Varma got back to me. For years, he’s worked in IT for State, and I was sure he could help me locate the e-mails. But he did not want to meet at the White House—he was emphatic about it. So I suggested meeting at the Village Blend on the night of one of Abby’s Open Mike performances. I thought,
If this man has information, I’ll call Abby over and we can all quietly talk.
But he claimed to know nothing of Abby’s father
or
why the e-mails were missing!”

“Why do you think he lied to you? And why meet in the first place?”

“Now that I know he was hiding that computer flash drive, I think Mr. Varma must have thought one of two things: Either I was planning to offer him money for the missing e-mails. Or I was setting up a sting to have him arrested for deleting them. Either way, he had to play it safe. And that was very smart. He didn’t want the evidence on him. But he wanted it close by. I remember he was already sitting at that table near the wall when I arrived.”

“Why do you think he kept it there? Why not take it with him?”

“When our meeting was over, I didn’t leave. I told him I was waiting to say hello to the President’s daughter before her Secret Service detail escorted her back to college. After that, he left very quickly. Either he was planning to come back to retrieve it, or he was planning another meeting. Perhaps with a journalist to sell the information. Or with someone else who would pay him handsomely for it—a rival of the President, for instance, who would use it to harm him politically.”

“Helen, how secret are these e-mails, really? I mean, if this digital discussion took place between Senator Parker and the deputy secretary of State,
then why didn’t you simply request to review the missing e-mails among Parker’s archives?”

“Because they don’t exist.”

“What?”

“For years, officials have been conducting business using private accounts, which means there is no transparency, no answering to the public, and no record for historians.”

She frowned in frustration. “Rose Mary Woods is infamous for erasing eighteen minutes of a crucial Watergate tape—‘the eighteen-minute gap.’ What much of the American public doesn’t realize is that there is a
thirty-year gap
when it comes to archiving government e-mails. And Senator Parker was part of that. The deputy secretary, on the other hand, followed the law, clearly stated in the Federal Records Act, and used the government servers, which allowed his e-mails to be archived. As a result, the
only
historic record of the e-mail discussion about Abby’s father is right here, in this file, and, well—”

She pointed to my bra.

“Clare, we don’t yet know who killed Mr. Varma, so
do not
hand that flash drive to anyone in the federal government. Only give it to the Metro DC detective assigned to Mr. Varma’s murder case.”

“There is no detective assigned. But I trust Sergeant Price. He’s been questioning me and talking to Mr. Varma’s family.”

“Good. Very good.”

“What about this secret file you’ve labeled
Bathsheba
? Can you decipher what the two men are discussing and why?”

“I recognize a name in these e-mails from my years here at the White House—the previous President’s chief of staff. He lives in Virginia now, and I’m going to reach out to him to see if he’ll speak with me. It will all be off the record, of course, but I can and will do the research I’m trained to do as a historian to put the pieces of this story together. Then I’m going to tell Abigail. This is the People’s House, not the Parkers’ or any one President’s, and I am the custodian of its history. That girl is an adult. She came to me in search of answers about her own history, and she deserves to know the truth.”

“But, Helen, from what you’re telling me, that truth got Mr. Varma killed.”

“That’s why we have to be careful, you and I.”

“Then I’ll take this flash drive right to the police precinct.”

“No, Clare, don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you may be under surveillance. We don’t yet know who murdered Mr. Varma, and we don’t want this evidence to ‘disappear’ once it’s in police hands. Just go about your business, as usual, and ask Sergeant Price to come to the coffeehouse. There’s nothing suspicious about a police officer stopping for coffee.”

“No, I guess—”

“Shhh. I hear voices . . .”

. . . and over the years, Presidents have decorated the Oval Office to suit their personal tastes . . .

Beyond the online lecture, I heard voices, too—a man and a woman. When we realized it was simply Pete and Beatrice returning to their desks, we sat back with relief.

Helen shoved
Bathsheba
into a desk drawer and quickly flipped open books. “Let’s get on with our other work, Clare.”

“Fine,” I whispered as Helen’s staff burst into the room, “just tell me how long you think it will take to get some answers?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll be sure to see you at the Smithsonian party. I’ll update you then . . .”

. . . and because of its closed elliptical shape, all sound is sent to that focal point in the room. By design, then, the President can sit at his desk and hear whatever anyone in his office is saying, even when whispering . . .

N
inety-four

T
HE doors to the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History opened at eight o’clock sharp. By eight thirty, most of the invited guests had passed through security. Now, at nine, the party was in full swing, and I was nervously watching and waiting for the First Family to arrive.

The venue was Flag Hall, located at the entrance to the Star-Spangled Banner gallery, home to the flag that inspired our national anthem. The walls of this vast space were magically illuminated with shifting colors—electric blue to ivory white to dramatic rose red. Laser lights projected giant stars onto this changing canvas, as well as the ceiling and running balconies, where guests could view the festivities below.

On the far end of the room, an eighteen-piece orchestra played beneath a shimmering replica of our U.S. flag, built from hundreds of reflective tiles.

As for the Village Blend’s contribution, I’d set up a wine and spirits bar, an espresso bar, and a
drinkable
exhibit I called
Good to the Last American Drop
, where guests could enjoy four-ounce sample cups of Matt’s specially sourced coffees from Hawaii as well as Central and South America.

Tonight’s guests would also have access to all four levels of “America’s Attic,” including a first look at the museum’s
Coffee in America
exhibition and the
Coffee and the Presidency
sidebar that Helen and I had worked on.

Among our star artifacts were Teddy Roosevelt’s “bathtub”-sized coffee cup; Jacqueline Kennedy’s sterling silver coffee service; the last cup Abe Lincoln drank coffee from before leaving for Ford’s Theatre; and the coffee urn, on loan from its home at Monticello, an exquisite example of Parisian silversmithing, purchased by Thomas Jefferson in 1789.

I’d even found a
working
replica of Jefferson’s urn to serve our Great Americas blend, which I’d created expressly for this event.

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 . . .

*   *   *

I
T 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 . . .”

N
inety-five

L
ANDRY 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.