Dead to the Last Drop (30 page)

Quinn guided my damp, shivering form to the galley and sat me down at the table. While I recounted what I’d seen and heard, he replaced the wet blanket with dry towels. Then he brewed coffee to warm up my insides, too.

By the time I got my story out, I’d downed a hot cup of joe and I wasn’t shivering anymore. But I was still inconsolably upset.

“Was Abby kidnapped? Did she kill herself?” I said, emotion welling up again. “I don’t know what to believe. Not anymore.”

Quinn locked his gaze on mine. “Do you think Sharon Cage is a good cop?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Tell me what Agent Cage thinks.”

“That Abby’s alive. That she didn’t kill herself—despite the blood they found in the park.”

“Remember Sergeant Price from DC Metro? Remember his internal lie detector? What does your own rumbly gut tell you?”

I closed my eyes and considered what I knew to be true.

“I believe Abby is a runaway bride. That she ran away to elope with Stan. I’m sure that’s why she was so happy at her bridal shower—because she knew Stan would be meeting her that night in the park.”

“Let’s start with that assumption and ignore everything else. Abby and Stan ran away together. What then?”

“They escaped Washington. Maybe they’re on their way to Vegas right now for a quick wedding.”

Quinn shook his head. “Trains, planes, and automobiles are out. They’re photographing everyone who pays a toll or drives through a tunnel. And you know firsthand they’re checking boats, too.”

“We managed to get out of DC when they were looking for us.”

“Because I’m a law enforcement professional and knew what to avoid. We stayed off highways and toll roads. I knew all the ways they could track us, and we were driving another man’s vehicle. We also had help from Danica. I promise you, the FBI is looking at every friend and associate of Stan’s and Abby’s. If they borrowed a car, they would have been discovered. If they rented a car, a credit card would have given them away.”

I nodded, a lump growing in my throat.

“The White House is using every resource they have. That means every law enforcement agency on a federal, state, and local level. The TSA is looking for them at the airports, the police at train stations. The Coast Guard is watching the ports. Every security camera feed is being reviewed. And you heard Agent Cage mention satellite surveillance. That’s probably the NSA. On top of that, the First Daughter is a minor celebrity who might be recognized, and with an eye patch and a limp, Stan doesn’t exactly blend in, either . . .”

Quinn shrugged. “There is no way Abby and Stan got out of DC.”

Now came the tears. “Then we have nowhere to go, no lead we can follow.”

“Every detective hits a wall at some point.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “I’ve seen veteran officers tear up in frustration over cases, especially when they become emotionally involved. Clare, I know you care a great deal about Abby and Stan, but try not to let emotion get in the way. Look at your evidence from a different angle, and do it as objectively as you can.”

“Okay . . .” I closed my eyes again and played back those voices on the pier. “I remember Agent Cage saying she wanted to go back to Georgetown.”

“Why?”

“She wanted to recheck the riverside spot where the dogs lost Abby’s scent . . .”

I thought about that idea—losing the scent.

“If you cross water, can you throw off bloodhounds?” I asked hopefully. “There’s a rowing club in that area. Maybe they used a small boat and crossed the river that way.”

“The bloodhounds would have picked up the scent again on the other
side. And anyway . . . wouldn’t crossing the Potomac like that have been a pretty desperate plan?”

“But Abby
was
desperate. She was being railroaded into a marriage, and . . .” My voice trailed off as a memory came back to me.

“Clare, what’s wrong?”

“Railroad . . . Railroad! Oh, my God, Mike, I know where they might have gone!”

“I told you the trains are being watched.”

“Not that railroad.”

“There’s another?”

I nodded. “A very old one . . .”

Quinn scratched his head. “I don’t get it.”

“That’s because you don’t know everything yet. Some of what I’m about to tell you I was asked
never
to divulge to anyone. But I’m going to reveal it now because you were right, Mike. Details matter . . .”

E
ighty-two

A
FTER Abby’s stunning performance, nothing returned to normal at the Village Blend, DC—which was a good thing.

The publicity sent our walk-in coffee business through the roof. Our Jazz Space made nightly use of the blue velvet rope we’d never needed before, and our new, revised menu continued to impress customers and local food critics, which meant our prestige grew along with our popularity.

And it got better . . .

A few days after Abby’s performance, the First Lady sent a stunning bouquet of dark pink roses to me, expressing appreciation for “doing for Abigail what we never could . . . Our daughter is now a star, thanks to you and everyone at the Village Blend, DC.”

In that same note, Mrs. Parker reiterated Abigail’s wish that we provide the coffee service for her Rose Garden wedding. The First Lady also requested that Chef Luther Bell and the Village Blend cater the Smithsonian’s three-hundred-guest party celebrating the opening of its
Coffee in America
exhibition at the Museum of American History.

With little more than two weeks to plan and execute the request, Luther and Joy went into a paroxysm of advance preparations.

*   *   *

A
week later, I was scheduled to meet Mrs. Helen Hargood Trainer, Curator of the White House.

By this time, the curator and I had made contact by phone and traded dozens of e-mails about the White House contribution to the exhibition. But
we had yet to meet face-to-face, so Helen Trainer graciously invited me to the White House to view the collection of artifacts being lent to the Smithsonian, largely based on the work we’d done together.

The day of my scheduled visit, Madame and I were in the mansion’s kitchen, preparing to pack up Mrs. Bittmore-Black’s contribution to the show—the exquisite silver coffee service gifted to her by Jacqueline Kennedy. It was still sitting in its glass case, on the kitchen counter, when the doorbell rang.

“I hope that’s not Helen’s people,” I said, checking my watch. “If it is, they’re two hours early!”

Instead of a White House courier, I found a bedraggled Stan McGuire on the front porch. His usual ramrod-straight military bearing was gone, and he’d forgotten to comb his unruly brown hair.

“I’d like to talk, Ms. Cosi. It’s about Abby.”

Madame took charge, leading Stan to the kitchen, where she sat him down at the center island. As I poured him a cup of our Smooth Jazz blend, Madame split a fresh blueberry muffin, slathered it with Joy’s favorite high-fat, European butter, and set it in front of him.

“Eat that right up,” she said, taming his wayward locks with a gentle touch.

“What’s happening with Abby?” I asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me. Gard mentioned you’re going to the White House today. Would you please talk to Abby, Ms. Cosi? I need to know if she’s okay.”

“But you talk to her every day, don’t you?”

“We talk. But I haven’t
seen
her for ten days, not since the show at the Jazz Space.” He paused. “I assume you know what happened on
The Good Day Show
last week?”

The whole world knew. Millions of Americans watched Abby’s meltdown live, and the video went viral after that. Stan blamed it on the First Lady.

“Abby’s mother made sure our band wouldn’t appear—which forced Abby to play cold, without support or backup. And what her mother did next was just sadistic . . .”

The First Lady had gone on the show with Abby, and right before her solo performance, Mrs. Parker announced Abigail’s secret engagement and the Rose Garden wedding in June.

“There Abby sat, on that piano bench, waiting for her cue,” Stan
recounted, “and all of a sudden her mother was telling the world about the history of her relationship with her fiancé . . .”

And that wasn’t the worst of it. While Abby managed to hide her shock over the unexpected wedding announcement, she was openly gobsmacked by what happened next.

“Abby was going to play a solo version of ‘Fix You,’” Stan explained. “But nobody warned her she was supposed to re-create, you know, the part when she kissed me.”

“Oh, I remember that,” Madame said. “
Everyone
does!”

“Except this time Abby was supposed to lock lips with Preston Emory.”

E
ighty-three

W
HEN Abby’s fiancé walked onto
The Good Day
Show
set as a “surprise guest” and sat down beside her on the piano bench, she displayed the same disturbed reaction she’d had in our greenroom after her big performance. Only this uncomfortable scene was telecast live, to the whole world.

Stan grimaced at the memory.

“You could hear the director cueing her, but Abby froze,” he said bitterly. “If I had been there, I could have snapped her out of it.”

“How?” I asked—and not skeptically.

I marveled at how Stan had bonded with Abby musically, and I was honestly curious how he’d gotten her through her big headliner debut.

“Abby is a true artist, Ms. Cosi. She doesn’t just bang notes on a cabinet with internal strings . . .” Stan paused and studied the ceiling. “You know how we say, ‘You don’t play your instrument. You play music.’? The reason is because the music isn’t in the instrument. That’s not where it comes from. It comes from inside the musician. Abby needs to
hear
the music. Only then can she play.”

“And you help her hear it?”

Stan nodded. “Once you’ve grounded yourself in the rudiments, the work is internal. To do it right, you have to stop criticizing yourself.”

“So you’re saying Abby is afraid of making a mistake?”

He leaned forward. “In jazz, there are no mistakes. There’s just you—and the music. If you can understand that and accept yourself, when you
swing
, you’ll sweep that audience right along with you.”

“And you remind Abby of that?”

“I remind Abby to love every sound she makes.”

But that morning, in front of the TV cameras, Stanley McGuire wasn’t there to remind Abby to love every sound she made. And after too many seconds of embarrassing silence, what viewers heard was Preston Emory harshly command—

“Just play it, Abby!”

What she finally played was a slamming rendition of “Chopsticks,” followed by a key sweep and dead silence.

The network jumped to a commercial after a final shot of Abby glaring at Preston. And Preston blinking at the camera.

“Mrs. Parker is using that television fail against her now. She claims what happened on TV proves Abby doesn’t have what it takes to perform. She keeps pressuring her to ‘be rational,’ ‘stick to the plan,’ and ‘put aside her pipe dream.’”

Stan’s finger quotes slashed the air.

“Abby’s supposed to ‘do the
sane
thing’: Marry Emory. Start a family. Be happy.” Stan dropped his hands to clutch his coffee cup. “Meanwhile her mom won’t let her out of the White House. She insists Abby’s celebrity has become a ‘security risk.’”

“Have you asked if you can see her?”

“More than once. She says I’ll never be approved as a guest.”

For a moment Stan sat in silence.

“You want to know the scary part, Ms. Cosi? Abby herself. She’s so confused. I’ll convince her to break it off with that clown and stick to her music, and she promises she will. Then I talk to her the next night and it’s like she doesn’t remember the first conversation. They’ve got her on meds again. And I know why she needs them. She can’t hear the music anymore. All she can hear is their criticism.”

E
ighty-four

M
Y heart went out to Stan, who shook his head in despair.

“If you ask me, the problem isn’t Abby and her music,” he declared. “It never was. It’s the truth that girl represents—”

“What do you mean?” I asked, but Stan was on a rolling rant.

“You know what I think? Her own mother
set her up
to fail
on that damn morning show so she’d have an excuse to take complete control of her daughter’s life again. Even Abby thinks it was payback for dedicating ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ to her father.”

Madame frowned in confusion. “Why would the First Lady be bothered by a tribute to the President?”

“She wouldn’t. But President Parker isn’t Abby’s real father.”

On the checkerboard patio, a pair of songbirds got into a chirping argument. I noticed only because in the kitchen there was stunned silence.

“How do you know this, Stan? Did Abby tell you?”

He nodded. “Her biological father died when she was eight. Do you know that tattoo of musical notes on Abby’s arm? It’s the opening phrase to ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow,’ the song her dad always sang to her.” Stan drained his cup. “She said his playing was transcendent, and I’m not surprised. He was the one who taught her to play.”

“Who was her father?” Madame asked.

“His name was Andy A. Ferro. Beyond that and his birth date, Abby knows very little. She was told that he worked overseas for the government, and I thought he might be military, so I reached out to a friend, but the search he did of government and military personnel came up with nothing.
And I mean a big, fat donut, no records of the guy anywhere. If he really did work for ‘the government’—and I have my doubts—his records are wiped.”

“Does Abby know how he died?” I asked.

“Only that it happened in Morocco.”

Morocco?
I thought. The First Lady had mentioned something about Morocco and her coffee obsession—

“. . . after Abigail was born I went a little crazy,”
she’d told me.
“I must have visited my favorite stall in the souk every morning that summer . . .”