Dead to the Last Drop (35 page)

N
inety-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 gourmet 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.

N
inety-seven

“H
ELLO, 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 . . .

“There’s something funny going on in the People’s House, and it started with the current administration,” Helen continued, eyes glassy. “What’s next, a Secret Service escort out the door? All because I tried to help Abby.”

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.

And then I felt the presence of my own personal space invader.

A young woman in a pink party dress had moved out of the crowd to hover at my shoulder. For a moment I wondered if this perky, young Latina was shyly attempting to compliment my coffee, because she held her personalized gift cup to her lips for a long moment, long enough for me to read the name printed there—
Lidia Herrera
.

Lidia? That’s when I remembered where I’d seen her before. The White House. This was Katerina’s eager assistant, the one who’d followed her boss out of the First Family residence, overburdened by a tall stack of legal-sized files, tottering on too-high heels.

I watched Lidia’s eyes drift toward Katerina and Agent Sharpe. She smiled crookedly as she lowered her cup.

“My boss loves men with guns,” she announced. “I think she collects them.”

“Men?” I asked. “Or guns? Or both?”

“That’s why she likes
your
man,” said Lidia, ignoring my question. “And by the way,
where is
Michael Quinn
tonight?”

I couldn’t stop my frown, but I remained silent as stone.

“
Baltimore
, right? With that cute, young detective . . .” Lidia Herrera cocked her head and put one hand on her hip. “Word up, girlfriend. Michael likes brown sugar, and they have a
thang
goin’ on.”

“So you’re here to bait me? Or pump me for information? Or both?”

She snorted and looked away.

“I assume your boss put you up to this?” I pressed, and one glance in Katerina’s direction told me I was right. She was practically salivating in
anticipation of my reaction. “Do you actually
like
working for that female python?”

“Ms. Lacey gets things done, and she’s going places. Someday she’s going to be attorney general.”

I shook my head.
Do creatures like Katerina attract other creatures? Or does she create them? Or both?

Lidia Herrera touched my gift cup to her lips again and made a face.

“This coffee’s grown stale,” she said with a smirk. “I think I need something fresher. But I suspect you’ve heard
that
complaint before.”

“You know what, Lidia? I’d suggest a new pour, but it won’t help you.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you haven’t lived long enough to understand that everything has a freshness date. And if you keep twisting the good in you to get what you want, one day you’ll wake up to find everything in your cup’s gone bad.”

“Hmph” was her only reply before she spun on her spikey heels and toddled away.

N
inety-eight

M
ERE moments after Katerina 2.0 lit up my life, the band struck up a rousing rendition of “Hail to the Chief.”

Despite my increasing list of anxieties, a shiver of excitement went through me as the explosion of applause greeted the President and First Lady. Entering arm in arm, they were followed by their son, Kip Parker, and his escort for the evening, a willowy blonde in yellow with a dazzling smile.