Dead to the Last Drop Page 2

  After all, Georgetown was a picturesque, historically preserved neighborhood with collegiate ties and bohemian leanings, much like the Greenwich Village location of our original Village Blend. It seemed the perfect way to expand our century-old family business, a dream Madame had been fostering in recent years.

  As for my dream, it had less to do with business than a man named Michael Ryan Francis Quinn—NYPD detective by trade, training, and instinct—who was now on temporary assignment at the United States Department of Justice.

  The protracted duration of Quinn’s supposedly “transitory” duty was compelling enough for me to relocate. In plain speaking: I missed the man. As a result, I’d agreed to help Gard get this DC branch of our Village Blend coffee business up on its feet—unfortunately, after eight weeks of coaxing, this promising baby was still on its knees.

  I handled the day-shift coffee business on the first floor, which was decent, but it wasn’t brisk enough to carry the jazz club, which was hemorrhaging money.

  Gardner managed the club, and we agreed the music wasn’t the problem; it was the food. (One recent devastating print review and a dozen online reviews concurred.) That’s why he’d asked me to stop by this evening and evaluate the menu issues, which I’d been doing, table by table—until I spotted the man with the gun.

  Keeping my cool, I moved slowly to the stairs and raced up them.

  Now I stood before Gardner in our small office on the third floor. He and I shared the space. The rest of this large top floor served other purposes, including a small apartment that Gard used and a “greenroom” for the performers he booked. At the moment, however, I regretted the floor plan didn’t include an armory.

  “Okay, talk to me—” Gardner said, putting down his phone. “What’s up?”

  “I think we’re about to be robbed.”

  “What?!” His espresso-hued eyes went wide. “Have you called the police?”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because nothing’s happened yet.”

  “Then what makes you think—”

  “Remember that holdup in the news last week? The bistro on Connecticut Avenue? Two armed men took wallets, smartphones, and jewelry at gunpoint. The perps waited at separate tables for the right time to strike. Well, I think I’ve spotted them downstairs.”

  “In the coffeehouse?”

  “No, the club. As I was chatting up customers, I came upon this man, sitting alone, wearing a baseball jacket. He’s not eating or drinking alcohol, just sipping a Coke. He’s scanning the room, hardly paying attention to the stage.”

  “Is that all?” Gardner smoothed his goatee. “There could be any number of reasons why—”

  “Except a big, bald guy, at the opposite end of the room, is doing the same thing—and making occasional eye contact with the first man. When I moved closer, I saw the gun in the big guy’s suit jacket!”

  “He’s strapped?”

  “Yes!”

  “Did either of these guys notice you noticing them?”

  “I could feel their eyes on me as I crossed the dining room, but I don’t know that they know I know.”

  Now Gardner was on his feet. “Do they look Middle Eastern?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “You never heard of prejudiced profiling? We call the cops and we’re wrong, they could sue us for discrimination, defamation, harassment!”

  “I suppose the guy in the baseball jacket could pass for a Saudi.”

  Gardner moaned.

  “Let’s not panic,” I said. “We’ll have to involve the police, but we can do it carefully. Business has been pretty lousy around here without bad publicity killing it completely—”

  “Or a lawsuit!”

  “I have an idea.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  I explained my plan, and Gardner nodded. “Let’s do it. But I still hope you’re wrong.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Two

  I led the way down the stairs to our second floor Jazz Space. Sweet music flowed from the low stage, where three members of Gardner’s own band, Four on the Floor, were wrapping up their first set.

  We entered the dining area behind the polished coffee and wine bar. Our young, Italian bartender was helping out on the floor, along with our sole server for the evening.

  To keep us from spooking these robbers, I directed Gardner to turn his back on the customers and gaze instead into the ornate mirror mounted behind the long bar. The LED light star field on the twilight blue ceiling and opposite wall were reflected there, along with tonight’s sparsely occupied tables.

  As Gardner prepared a drink, I pretended to help.

  “Where do I look?” he whispered.

  “By the exit to the restroom. See the big bald guy in a suit? He’s the one I know is armed . . .”

  As Gardner observed the man, the band ended their set.

  Stan “Sticks” McGuire, the band’s wiry new drummer, grabbed his Hoover cane. Stan had a permanent limp, unruly brown hair, and tremendous energy. Despite his leg injury and visual impairment—a blind eye, which he masked with a Captain America eyepatch—he moved smoothly off the stage, unassisted.

  Jackson placed his bass into its stand and grabbed the microphone.

  “Thanks, folks. Now it’s time for us to clear out so you can listen to our Open Mike favorite. Join us on a musical stroll down the piano keys with the extraordinary fingers of Miss Abby Lane.”

  Gardner nearly dropped his glass.

  “Don’t panic,” I cautioned. “You might alert the robbers.”

  Gardner didn’t reply. He simply melted into barely stifled laughter.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  He shook his head. “Clare, I’m sorry. I was burning up the phone lines, looking for next Saturday’s replacement act, and I forgot Abby was playing tonight.”

  “Abby? The girl at the piano?”

  A serious-looking young woman in a long, funereal black dress sat down behind the Steinway. Her pale features were obscured by black glasses with thick, retro-1950s horn rims and a curtain of shiny ebony hair. With a silent dip of her head she acknowledged the applause, which was enthusiastic.

  Clearly, Abby had a small but loyal following. As she began to play, I knew why. Her music immediately captivated, her style was playful yet soulful. And she was a delight to watch. The notes seemed to illuminate her spirit with a joy so radiant that it burned through the industrial-strength eyewear.

  I faced Gardner, who’d finally managed to tamp down his uncontrolled mirth.

  “I’m confused,” I said in a loud whisper. “Why are you laughing?”

  “Because we’re not being robbed.” Gardner’s gaze met mine. “Take another look at the woman behind the piano—a good look.”

  Still baffled, I faced the stage again.

  The young musician appeared blissfully immersed in her music. I noticed the hint of a tattoo peeking out from under her sleeve, but lots of young women had tattoos, so it wasn’t much of an identifier.

  “Is she a celebrity? A famous musician?” I snapped my fingers. “That’s it! She’s a musician, and the two armed men are really her bodyguards.”

  “You’re half-right. So you don’t have to worry. We’re not going to be robbed by a pair of Secret Service agents.”

  “Secret Service?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then the young woman, onstage . . .”

  When words failed, Gardner finished for me.

  “She’s the President’s daughter.”

  Three

  AFTER watching Abby for fifteen minutes, I tugged Gardner’s sleeve. I had a potful of questions and didn’t want our conversation overheard, so we climbed back up to our third-floor office.

  “Why didn’t
you tell me?”

  “I’m sorry, Clare. I wanted to, but . . .” Gard leaned back in the desk chair and rubbed his long neck. “Knowing the truth about Abby comes with a lot of responsibility—rules and worries and procedures. You already had your hands full with the dawn-to-dusk coffee business on the first floor; and Abby only comes to the Jazz Space at night. I wanted to spare you.”

  “Do your bandmates know?”

  “They didn’t at first, but they do now . . .”

  He leaned forward and switched on the house speakers so we could hear more of the live performance of First Daughter Abigail Prudence Parker, who apparently enjoyed appearing at the Village Blend, DC, under the stage name Abby Lane.

  “Has she been performing long?”

  “She showed up at our very first Open Mike. But she didn’t sign up until week two. She’s played every week after that.”

  “She obviously has passionate followers. I tried to engage a middle-aged couple, ask them about our menu, but they insisted they were only here for Abby Lane.”

  “I didn’t notice them,” Gard said.

  “They were sitting next to the star field wall, near the stage. The man looked East Indian. Beautifully tailored suit, monogrammed tie. The woman was a brunette; hair pinned up; wrapped from head to toe in House of Fen; and her bag was that new five-hundred-dollar Fen Pouch fashionistas are drooling over. A real power couple.”

  “Sounds good . . .” My co-manager nodded. “Maybe they’ll tell some of their well-heeled friends about us.”

  “And did you notice that olive-skinned hipster with the gray beard and ponytail? He couldn’t tear his eyes away. I’ve never seen him around, either, at least not in the coffeehouse.”

  “I know that guy. He only comes on the nights Abby performs. Always alone. Last week he sat at the front table.” Gardner snorted. “Fan or not, he’s in for a surprise if he tries to get any closer to that girl.”

  “What do you mean?”

  My co-manager replied with the story of how he discovered Abby’s true identity . . .

  “The first time she got up the nerve to play at our Wednesday Open Mike Night, I was impressed with her ability. She stayed for the Open Jam Session and Stan worked with her, helped ease her into improvising with other musicians. Over the next two weeks, I noticed she came by to listen to my group. After her third Open Mike, I decided to invite her for a talk over coffee. But when the Open Jam Session ended, she hustled down the stairs and out the door. I hurried to catch up, down to the street, where I saw her climbing into the backseat of this big SUV. I called out her name and ran toward her . . .”

  He shook his head at the memory. “Huge mistake! Two beefy guys came out of nowhere, and wham! I got T-boned and then pinned to the pavement. Man, I hurt for a week.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, there I was on the ground, rasping like Louis Armstrong, and suddenly Abby is standing over us screaming, ‘Don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him!’”

  The overzealous Secret Service agents released Gardner, and the misunderstanding was cleared up.

  “Now I don’t feel so bad,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t recognize Abby’s bodyguards as federal agents, either.”

  “Don’t worry about it. They’re trained to mingle with the public.”

  “I would have expected navy blazers with joe-obvious earpieces, you know the kind, with curly wires running into hidden radios—”

  “They have wireless earpieces now, shoved so deep into their ear canals they have to be removed with magnets. And their jackets do hide communications equipment—smartphones. That’s how they talk to each other.” He snorted again. “Thanks to Abby, I’ve learned more than I ever wanted to know about the dos and don’ts of the Secret Service.”

  “I gather you and Abby had that coffee talk, after all.”

  “That very night. That’s when Abby told me who she was, and swore me to secrecy. And the band, too, once they figured out the score.”

  “When did they catch on?”

  “A week after I did. It was Stan who saw it first.”

  “Saw?”

  “That’s right, Clare. For a near-blind guy, he never misses a trick.”

  “Did Abby tell you why she’s keeping her identity a secret?”

  Gardner shrugged noncommittally, but I got the impression he knew more than he was letting on. Meanwhile my own mind was racing.

  A piece of news like this, released into social media, could go viral—even global—overnight. My eyes glazed envisioning the paparazzi and journalists of this town lining up at our door, not to mention the curious public. We’d be packed for a long time to come.

  “Is there any chance Abby would be okay with us telling the truth about her Open Mike appearances?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Would you at least let me ask her?”

  “I don’t know, Clare . . .”

  “Please?”

  Gardner released a hard breath. Then he fell silent, tuning back in to Abby’s performance. Finally, he cocked an ear at the speaker. “She’s about to finish her set.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She always wraps with ‘Cool Reception.’ It’s an original piece.”

  I listened until the final notes of the haunting song faded into applause. Though the crowd was small, the reaction was wholehearted.

  Gardner rose. “Let’s go . . .”

  “Back downstairs?”

  “Yeah, it’s time you met our First Daughter.”

  Four

  AFTER introductions were made, we led Abby upstairs for a break in our greenroom. Not that it was completely green. I’d painted lush trees against walls of a pale, powder blue that turned luminous when the sun poured through the skylight. At night, stars twinkled above and the room’s floor lamps bathed the space in a warm glow.

  Couches and armchairs littered the perimeter of the room, but we all took seats around the circular dining table. Gard called refreshment requests down to the bar and kitchen. His band settled in, and Abby fidgeted in her chair, still pumped from her performance.

  I started off by asking the young woman about her musical training.

  “I’ve studied classical piano since I was six, Ms. Cosi. Once upon a time, I dreamed of becoming a concert pianist. But as my mother loves to say, ‘Most dreams turn into nightmares, Abigail. Better to keep both eyes open . . .’”

  Stan gave a disapproving grunt.

  Either he didn’t care for her reference to both eyes being open—given that his military service left him with only one—or he disagreed with the statement philosophically.

  I absolutely disagreed with it philosophically but, for the moment, I held my tongue. Gardner had more experience with DC than I did, and he advised me early on to keep my opinions to myself. “If you want to stay in business in this town, Clare, don’t stir the pot. Just pour from it . . .”

  In theory, I agreed. Factions came to Washington from every state in the union and every region of the planet. But I wanted our DC Village Blend to remain a blend, true to the basic principle our country was founded upon—

  Everyone was welcome.

  Unfortunately, everyone included disapproving bodyguards, like the young female Secret Service agent posted next to the greenroom’s open door.

  The athletically built woman had been among the downstairs audience from the start, but in her jeans and Windbreaker she blended in so well that I hadn’t noticed her until she introduced herself as Secret Service Agent Sharon Cage and insisted on checking the greenroom before Abby went up.

  With a golden ponytail as high and tight as her on-duty posture, Agent Cage’s frowning gaze studied everyone at the table, though she focused most of her attention on me. Obviously the woman didn’t care for my qu
estioning Abby.

  Well, last I checked, the First Amendment was still in force . . .

  I asked about her studies, and Abby told me she was a political science major at American University. I couldn’t hide my surprise.

  “You’re not pursuing a degree in music?”

  The girl shrugged. “It’s no use.”

  “Why?” Gardner jumped in. “Come on, Abby, admit it. You’re great and you know it.”

  The girl laughed. “So you say. No offense, Gard, but I’ve had some of the best instructors in the world, and the consensus was always the same. I’m good, but nowhere near good enough to be taken seriously.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Everyone who enjoyed your music tonight certainly took you seriously. And anyone can see you love playing.”

  “That’s true, Ms. Cosi. Music touches me the way that nothing else does.” She hugged herself, one hand absently touching the musical notes tattooed on her arm. “I have a digital piano in my dorm. I’ve used it for years. It’s got hammer-weighted keys so it’s got the feel of an acoustic . . .” She shrugged. “I always play with the headphones on, you know, so I won’t bother anyone . . .”

  When her voice trailed off, I leaned closer. “You know, Abby, back in New York City, I employ young artists. They work as baristas to make ends meet while they pursue their love of painting, acting, writing, dancing. And do you know what I’ve learned from them?”

  “What?”

  “The practice of any art is a worthy pursuit. Whether you’re the world’s best at it or not is beside the point.”

  “Excuse me?” Abby’s brow knitted. “But isn’t that the whole point? Aren’t we all supposed to be striving to be The Best?”

  Stan grunted. “You mean like the best rental car company?”

  “Or best football team?” Jackson laughed. “We’re number one! We’re number one!”

  Stan pulled out his sticks and found a beat. The band hooted and clapped and chanted in time. “Best, best, best of the rest!”