Dead to the Last Drop (36 page)

I breathed a sigh of relief when Abigail, in her favorite color—black—made an entrance, unsmiling and uncomfortable, Preston Emory at her side. I knew I wasn’t the only one relieved to see her. I’d placed Stan behind our sampling bar. Now, when I tried to catch his attention, he only had eyes for Abby.

The arrival of the President meant the food service could begin. Though this was not a sit-down meal for guests, a table was reserved for the First Family. They weren’t expected to line up for their food, either. The experienced White House waitstaff was here to serve them.

But before they could eat, the presidential couple had to make it across this crowded room filled with fawning supporters—no mean feat, even for the Leader of the Free World.

There was much shaking of hands, air kissing, and even a few backslaps, so it took an inordinate amount of time just to navigate. As they approached our coffee bar, I hurried over and tugged Stan’s sleeve.

“Okay, you’re on. Time to ditch the apron and put on the jacket. You know the plan.”

Stan did his quick change, then paused. “I don’t have a mirror, Ms. Cosi. How do I look?”

I grinned at the new Stan. His sharp-pressed pants, shiny Oxfords, and black evening jacket made the man, but it was the black satin eye patch that made him over-the-top
dashing
.

“It looks to me like this party lost a humble waiter, and gained a gallant guest.” I squeezed his rock-solid shoulder. “All right, James Bond. You’re on.”

Stan grabbed the single, bright red rose he’d stashed among the supplies.

“One more stop,” he said and made his way over to the band.

Now the President and Mrs. Parker were only a few feet away from me. As they passed, I greeted the First Lady with a welcoming nod, and received a cool smile in return.

Then I called to Abby.

“Hello, Ms. Cosi,” she said, extending a polite hand.

“We’ve missed you so much at the Village Blend,” I cried, opening my arms like a loving Italian nonna. Before Abby could react, I wrapped the surprised First Daughter in an embrace, squeezed her close, and whispered in her ear.

“Find the ruby slippers. Someone is waiting to take you over the rainbow.”

I stepped back. The smile on Abby’s face told me she’d gotten the coded message. Following the First Daughter closely, Sharon Cage, in a crisp blue suit, raised a suspicious blond eyebrow at me as she passed.

Finally the members of the First Family were seated and served. Kip and Preston seemed more interested in glad-handing and networking than they were in their meals—or their dates. After a few bites of food, the young men excused themselves to “mingle,” leaving Abby and Kip’s date to fend for themselves.

The President and First Lady were too engrossed in each other to notice. They touched at every opportunity, they laughed at their own banter, and shared food from each other’s forks. They weren’t just a loving couple, they were still demonstrably in love with each other, despite the whirlwind of Washington elite around them. Seeing them in person made me realize just how much the President treasured his First Lady, despite the shadows he’d seen in her past.

After a few minutes, Abby excused herself. I couldn’t hear what she told her family, but I knew where she was headed.

I silently crossed my fingers for Abby and Stan, and was going to grant
them privacy—until I spotted Sharon Cage following Abby out of Flag Hall and into the American Stories area of the museum.

Now I was worried.

If the overzealous Secret Service agent interfered with this young couple, it could ruin everything.

But I was relieved to see Cage hanging back, lurking out of sight as she watched Abby approach Stan, who was waiting in front of those sparkling red slippers.

I stayed back, too, and separately Cage and I witnessed Abby’s first meeting with Stan in more than two weeks.

I couldn’t hear their words, but I didn’t need to. Their body language told their story: two people who needed each other the way the rest of us needed food to eat and air to breathe.

When Stan offered her the red rose, their hands touched. Suddenly Abby’s arms were around Stan’s neck and he was holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the whole wide world.

At that moment, the orchestra in Flag Hall struck up the first phrase from “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” and Abby’s eyes began to tear. Stan whispered something to her, and she nodded, fat drops raining down her cheeks, onto her shining smile. Then Stan kissed her and she was there with him, over the rainbow.

The music swelled and they began to dance, Stan leading, Abby’s dark head resting against his sturdy shoulder, oblivious to the history around them.

When the song ended, the couple strolled away, still clinging to each other. Agent Cage stepped back, letting them pass into the Documents Gallery next door.

And then, instead of following her charge, Sharon Cage shocked me by moving with interest toward the display case—the one holding the most famous shoes in the country.

N
inety-nine

I
quietly approached the Secret Service agent, who seemed momentarily mesmerized by Dorothy’s glittering slippers.

“I know you’re there, Cosi,” she said, her eyes never leaving the display. “No need to creep up on me.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t follow them.”

“It’s killing me not to. But I know that boy would never hurt Abby, and they deserve their privacy. I also know the museum is secure. Agents are posted at every exit . . .”

She glanced at me. “It’s still hard to let go.”

“
Now
you know what it’s like to be a mother.”

I smiled as I followed her gaze back to the scarlet pumps.

“I’ve wanted to see these shoes since I was a little girl,” she confessed. “I’d been meaning to come here. After five years in DC, tonight was my first chance.”

“Are you a Judy Garland fan? I have a barista with a partner who does an uncanny impression. Stop by our coffeehouse Thursday nights.”

“My interest in the shoes comes from Oz. I read all the Frank Baum books—and I’m actually
from
Kansas.”

“I see. For you, there really is no place like home.”

Cage finally smiled, and informed me Dorothy’s shoes weren’t red in the book. They were silver.

“The filmmakers changed it because of Technicolor. Red stood out better when Garland skipped down the yellow brick road.” She gazed
down at her own thick-soled flats. “Unfortunately, there’s no clicking these hoofers for a ride back to Lawrence.”

“Lawrence?”

“Technically, I’m from a tiny farming community
outside
of Lawrence.”

“I’ll bet your family is proud of you. And proud of the job you do.”

“I suppose they are. But I’m sure the families of JFK’s Secret Service detail were proud of them, too, right up to November 22, 1963.”

I didn’t know what to make of Sharon Cage’s sudden turn to the dark side. Maybe it was all this history around us. After all, this exhibition sought to present the story of America through one hundred touchstones of its history . . . light and dark—

A fragment of Plymouth Rock; Benjamin Franklin’s walking stick; Eli Whitney’s cotton gin; shackles worn by Abraham Lincoln’s assassination conspirators; Alexander Graham Bell’s box telephone; Bob Dylan’s leather jacket; John Coltrane’s tenor sax; an Apple II computer; Kermit the Frog; and, of course, the most visited item in the museum, Dorothy’s ruby slippers from
The Wizard of Oz
. These objects, and many more, were displayed on the walls, or in freestanding glass cases. But Cage was only interested in discussing the red shoes. And, apparently, presidential history through homicide.

“Do you know when the Secret Service was created, Ms. Cosi? The day Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. He signed our formation into law before he took a bullet to the head. Then three more Presidents were murdered over the next century.”

“And Ronald Reagan was shot in 1981,” I pointed out, “but his Secret Service detail saved his life.”

“Exactly. History provides my lessons: I cannot slip up. Not once. And I have to be ready.”

“Ready to spot the next nutcase with a gun?”

“Ready to lay down my life to save Abigail Parker.” She paused, still looking at the slippers. “The truth is: Dying for her doesn’t bother me. What I couldn’t live with is something bad happening to that girl. That’s my worst nightmare.”

I touched her arm. “Agent Cage, if anyone could protect the President’s daughter from the wicked of this world—and bring her home safely—it would be you, with or without magic slippers.”

She shot me a glance. “There’s no place like home, eh, Cosi?”

“As long as home is where the heart is . . .”

As my voice trailed off, I felt a presence at my shoulder. Sharon looked up, eyes narrowing with concern, which instantly worried me. Turning, I found a wall of mocha-skinned muscle in Italian wool.

“Is there a problem, Agent Dimas?” Sharon asked.

“It’s the President,” the giant said, voice deeper than Darth Vader’s. “The Commander in Chief would like to speak with Ms. Cosi, as soon as possible.”

Good heavens, are they onto me?

If they were, my goose was cooked. Pinning a secret flash drive to your bra works only if your interrogation isn’t preceded by a federally authorized strip search!

“Come with me, ma’am,” the Wall commanded.

With nowhere to run, I had little choice.

O
ne Hundred

A
S we left the American Stories area, another giant Secret Service agent joined us and suddenly I was flanked. As the two Walls moved me through Flag Hall, a third agent arrived, boxing me up from the rear.

A bit of overkill, don’t you think, boys? I’m a master roaster, not a terrorist mastermind!

Passing the beverage area, I spotted Helen Trainer, looking rather the worse for wear. She was still on Bernie Moore’s arm, as much for support as camaraderie—though hopefully she was not still babbling state secrets to the music reporter. It was even more distressing to see her clutching a martini glass instead of a coffee mug.

Behind the urn, peeking through the open doors to the kitchen, I spotted some Metro DC policemen, Landry among them, winking at my blue halter dress. I just prayed they were there to take advantage of my free coffee offer, and not to assist with my arrest!

Matt shot me a puzzled look, and Madame raised a curious eyebrow.

I shrugged, as if I were clueless. Meanwhile my insides were roiling like a Turkish
ibrik
over a flame. Did they have a warrant? I envisioned a quick discussion, then the Mirandizing, and finally the click of handcuffs—which (this time) would not be engaged for recreational use!

My heart pounded as I was escorted to the First Family’s table, where the President’s wife was busy chatting up the Speaker of the House. It was President Benjamin Rittenhouse Parker himself who rose to his full commanding height—which was plenty tall, considering he’d been a college basketball star—and circled the table to confront me.

I’d never been so close to a U.S. President.

I had to admit, Parker was striking, with iron gray hair and eyes to match. Despite his midsixties age, he radiated a youthful dynamism yet still managed to project a friendly, avuncular persona.

Unexpectedly, he thrust out his hand. Robotically I extended mine and he gripped it.

“Wonderful occasion, Ms. Cosi,” the President declared. “The food is delicious! And your coffee is
superb
!”

He leaned close for a theatrical whisper. “I insist you give up your secrets now . . .”

“Secrets?” My heart stopped, right next to that hidden flash drive, until the President replied—

“The ingredients for those Coffee-Glazed Barbecued Drumsticks. I’m a coffee fiend, Ms. Cosi. You
must
share the recipe with our White House chef.”

Everyone around us laughed. Only then did I notice the cameras and realized this was a photo op, not a felony capture.

I
would
have breathed a sigh of relief, but I was afraid if I inhaled too deeply the hidden contraband in my neckline would pop out.

Gritting my teeth, I kept on smiling while I answered the President’s questions about the exhibition.

Luckily, I’d done my research. I knew Ben Parker’s favorite U.S. President was Teddy Roosevelt, so I kept my focus on Theodore, and their shared love of coffee.

“Did you know Teddy downed up to a gallon of joe a day?”

I quickly explained how the habit evolved from his days of drinking it to relieve his childhood asthma. “The caffeine is similar to theophylline, a bronchodilator, so the coffee helped open up Teddy’s airways and relieve his wheezing and breathlessness.”

“Take it from me, Ms. Cosi,
anything
that helps a President breathe easier on the job is much appreciated!”

Again, everyone laughed.

“And, as you probably know already, Roosevelt was famously credited with coining the iconic Maxwell House Coffee phrase—”

“Good to the last drop!” President Parker and I recited together, and we both laughed.

Finally, I likened Matt’s worldwide sourcing trips to Theodore
Roosevelt’s own global adventures, including the former President’s last great expedition in 1913, in a country well known for its coffee growing—Brazil.

“Roosevelt helped lead the first group of explorers to document an area of the Amazon basin, along the thousand-mile—”

“River of Doubt,” President Parker finished for me. “The Brazilians call it Rio Roosevelt now. Did you know his expedition was partly sponsored by New York’s natural history museum?”

“I do now.”

“River of Doubt,” he repeated. “I read TR’s own account of the trip. Malaria, starvation, impenetrable jungle, white-water rapids, a drowning, and a murder. It was brutal. And beautiful. And I understand why he undertook it.”

“Why is that, sir?”

“Roosevelt was a man of action and energy, Ms. Cosi, and he’d just lost his reelection bid for a third term . . .” A melancholy look crossed Ben Parker’s face. “You know, that river is the perfect metaphor for what national leaders go through . . .”