Dead to the Last Drop (16 page)

“Music is the universal language. That’s what Gardner believes.”

“And he’s right. Music and good coffee . . .” He took a long sip. Then he dug into the oatmeal cookies and exclaimed: “Oh, man!
And
good food!”

Smiling in agreement, I snuck a cookie off his plate. “What made you choose drumming over piano and guitar?”

“After I was discharged, the docs told me it would be good physical therapy, and the shrinks thought drumming would be a ‘socially acceptable outlet’ for my anger.”

He laughed it off, but it was clear Stan had a lot of anger. His forearms were developed; his biceps and pecs looked rock hard.

“Why did you enlist in the first place?”

“I got used to army life, I guess,” he said between satisfying chews and swallows. “The only adults I knew were grunts. Both my parents were army docs, and I learned plenty about battlefield trauma, but I wasn’t serious enough about the sciences to get into med school, so I became a combat medic. I figured I could work as a city paramedic after my tours, but then . . .” He pointed to his eye and leg and then shrugged.

“I take it you saw a lot of the ‘combat’ part of your job description.”

“Yes, ma’am . . .” was all he said. Like most veterans, Stan didn’t like to talk about his military past—and I could guess why.

At twenty-five, he’d probably witnessed more horror and death than most people saw in their lifetimes, which meant he had little in common with civilians, including practically all of his peers. His bandmates, however, were on a different level for him. He clearly loved and trusted them.

One night, while Stan was having beers with Gardner in the third-floor greenroom, I overheard him opening up. I was quietly at work in the corner, painting a section of my mural, when he began talking about his second tour of duty in Afghanistan.

Sergeant McGuire was part of a combat medevac team sent on a rescue mission in the mountains. His helicopter was struck by a rocket-propelled grenade.

The device was a dud and didn’t explode. If it had, Stan and his whole crew would have died. But the grenade did plenty of damage as it bounced around the interior of the chopper. Among the casualties were the muscle in Stan’s left calf and the vision in his right eye, which is why he kept the patch on it.

But from his next remark, it was clear that Stan had found a kind of truth in his personal darkness.

“There’s something I learned over there that I wish I could teach Abby, Ms. Cosi.”

“What’s that?”

“Not to be afraid.”

“What does Abby fear, do you think?”

Stan’s whole body shrugged.

“Disappointing her parents. Failing. Going crazy. All of it and more, from what she’s told me. She’s so dynamic and determined when it comes to getting the music right. But the rest of her life . . .” Stan shook his head.
“Abby lets her mother bully her about everything. She’s scared to break away. But if she doesn’t, who knows what her mother is going to push her into next?”

A marriage
, I thought,
or so it seems.

To be fair, I hadn’t met Abby’s fiancé. Maybe he was right for her and the marriage was something she truly wanted as much as her mother did. Then again, Stan had spent much more time with Abby than I had, and he clearly held my troubled view of the quiet daughter and outspoken mother.

“I hate bullies,” he said simply. “And I can spot them a mile away. When I was growing up, some bully or other would come at me within the first week at any new school. I was lucky, though. I learned how to deal with them. Abby didn’t.”

“Not everyone has your courage, Stan, especially when you have to live with a bully every day.”

“Like you, Ms. Cosi?”

“Me?”

He nodded. “The situation you’re in with that obnoxious chef of yours.”

I blinked, speechless for a moment.

Stan leaned across the table. “Sometimes, ma’am, you don’t have to stand up to them. Not when a bully is too damn big. Think tactically. That’s what this country was founded on. When you can’t win toe-to-toe, you flank them. Surprise them. Knock the legs out from under them.” He spread his hands. “Hey, it worked for me. I’ll bet it will work for you, too.”

While Stan drained his cup and blithely began drumming the table to a tune in his head, I sat back to consider his words.

Chef Tad Hopkins
was
a bully. A bully with an ironclad contract. I’d been going toe-to-toe with him. But to beat him, I would have to outsmart him.

“You know, Stan, Gardner was right about you. For a near-blind guy, you see an awful lot.”

“Thanks, Ms. Cosi,” he said and popped the last cookie into his mouth.

F
orty-one

A
N hour later, I turned the floor over to Tito and Kimberly. Then I risked my neck by poking my head into the kitchen—praying Chef Hopkins wasn’t around to chop it off.

“
Pssst
 . . . hey,” I whispered to the only person in the room. “Where is Hopkins?”

Luther Bell turned away from chopping vegetables to jerk his head in the direction of the chef’s office.

Perfect
.

I stepped through the doors and joined Luther at the counter.

“I want to get the chef out of that room in a hurry, quickly enough that he’ll forget to lock the door behind him.”

Luther turned his eyes toward the ceiling. Finally he snapped his fingers.

“I got it. A faulty microwave will put Chef Tad in a panic.”

I made a face. “That says a lot about his cuisine. None of it good.”

“I know,” Luther said. “Practically all of tonight’s menu comes wrapped in plastic, but that should help you.” He leaned close. “The microwave acted up last week and I fixed it without telling him. I was afraid if the chef found out he’d throw one of his hissy fits.”

“You know how to fix a microwave?”

“I know how to change a breaker. The problem was in the basement fuse box.”

“Could you break it again? Pretty please?”

Luther grinned. “Anything for you, Clare Cosi.”

*   *   *

A
half an hour later, I was peeking through the swinging doors, waiting for my moment to pounce. Luther threw me a wink before rushing toward Chef Hopkins’s closed office door at the back of the kitchen.

“Chef! Chef!” He knocked frantically.

“What do you want?” demanded the muffled voice behind the door.

“Bad news,” Luther called. “The microwave is on the blink. I can’t turn it on. It won’t power—”

He didn’t even finish his sentence before Chef Hopkins burst out of his office. “What do you mean it won’t work? It was fine an hour ago. Show me!”

Luther led Tad to the microwave, where the pair fretted over the machine for a few minutes. Finally, Luther suggested the problem might be the fuse box in the basement.

“Go fix it,” Tad barked.

“Me?” Luther shrugged and spread his arms. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Fine!”

A moment later Tad pushed through the swinging doors, the Village Blend’s toolbox in hand. He was in such a panic that he didn’t even notice me jumping clear. As Chef Hopkins descended the basement stairs, I slipped into the kitchen.

“You’ve got three minutes. Five, tops,” Luther cautioned. “And I can’t warn you because he sent me out to bus tables.”

“That’s not your job!”

“Just go!”

I nodded my thanks and hurried to the back of the kitchen. Inside Tad’s office, I closed and locked the door. Suddenly I felt giddy. The fact that I didn’t even know what to look for was thrust aside by the sheer triumph I felt at getting this far.

Now for the hunt!

The chef’s office was cluttered and windowless, and the stark overhead light cast deep shadows. Like much of the newly renovated kitchen, the space smelled of fresh paint.

A printer was perched on the corner of Tad’s desk, but most of its faux-cherrywood surface was buried beneath old Jazz Space menus, scribbled notes, and numbers on Post-its. I riffled through a stack of clips from the
Washington Post
and the
Georgetown Current
, a community newspaper. Tad collected ads for other restaurants, foodie reviews, even a few recipes.

I checked his laptop next, and found it locked. Apparently the chef’s paranoia extended pretty far, which signaled to me he had something to hide.

I attempted to decipher the notes, but they were a jumble of meaningless scrawls and unidentified phone numbers. The desk drawers were unlocked, but contained only office supplies. I hunted up the trash can, but it was empty.

Heartsick, I realized I’d come up empty.

What did you expect, Clare? A cashier’s check marked “profit from stolen sea trout”? A photograph of the mysterious Eastern European man with his name and address scrawled on it?

With time running out, my eyes drifted back to the printer. A quick glance at the control panel and I felt hopeful again.

A print memory!

I powered up the machine and found two jobs stored in the microchips. I selected them both and pressed
Print
.

The first page was a guest list, forty-plus people on it. Many of the names had a culinary restriction or food allergy noted in red ink.

The second page was the purloined letter, the Maltese Falcon, and the map to Treasure Island all rolled up in one little piece of paper. That printout was my transit paper to Nirvana, and Tad Hopkins’s one-way ticket to Palookaville.

My bliss ended when I heard the click of a key in the lock, and then the office door opened.

F
orty-two

I
whirled to face a livid Tad Hopkins, his stocky frame filling the doorway. He clutched the toolbox in one hand, and waved a Phillips-head screwdriver in my face with the other.

“What the hell are you doing in
my
office?”

I was cornered in that tiny space, and I probably should have been scared. But I’d been intimidated one too many times by this gastronomic gadfly, and I was too angry to back down now.

“What am I doing here?” I flashed the catering menu I’d printed out. “I’m busting you. That’s what I’m doing . . .
Chef
.”

“What is that you’re waving around?”

“The menu for the event you catered—
with my sea trout!
”

The toolbox clattered to the floor.

“I may not be familiar with the DC penal code, but in New York, fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of pilfered seafood qualifies as fourth-degree grand larceny.”

Hopkins still gripped the screwdriver, which he used to drive home his point. “You’re deluded!” he bellowed. “Prove I stole your precious fish! You can’t.”

“That’s the beauty of it. I don’t have to.”

As he began to sputter, I knocked his arm aside and slipped around him. When I was through the door, he turned to face me again.

“You’ve got nothing, Cosi!”

“I’ve got this!” I pointed to the beautiful typeface at the bottom of the menu.

“‘Service provided by Tad Hopkins of Reston, Virginia,’” I read aloud. “And look at the date.”

“Get out of my kitchen—”

“Contracts cut both ways, Hopkins. And you signed on for two years of exclusive service.
Exclusive
. This piece of paper proves you violated the exclusivity clause on your contract. That means you’re fired.”

“But—”

“There are no buts. Now”—I couldn’t wait to say it—“
you
get out of
my
kitchen!”

“You are a total BITCH!” he shouted.

“And you are a CAUGHT FISH!
And
an embezzler. So get out!”

“Fine, I’m going. But you’ll hear from my lawyer!”

“Glad you have one,” I shot back. “Because if you make any trouble for Madame or this business, I’ll report the theft of my sea trout to the Metro DC police. It’ll be easy. Half the force was in here for coffee this morning! So sure, you can sue us—from jail!”

Our civil war had drawn a crowd. Tito and Kimberly had poked their heads through the swinging doors, and Luther stood gawking in the middle of the kitchen, gripping a plastic tray full of dirty glasses.

As embarrassing as it was to have an audience, I was thankful for the witnesses. For one thing, it kept Chef Hopkins from taking a swing at me. I could see his fists clenching. Honestly, the man looked angry enough to kill.

Maybe my employees prevented my murder. Maybe not. But the presence of eyewitnesses didn’t stop him from making more ugly threats.

When Hopkins was finally gone, I leaned against the wall. My knees were wobbly and I felt like a hundred bats were battering my chest, trying to get out.

“You okay, boss?” Luther asked.

“All in all, I feel pretty good, Chef.”

“Chef?” Luther looked around. “I’m sorry, but Hopkins is gone.”

“I know. I’m addressing you.” I faced him. “Because you are now in charge of our kitchen, Chef Bell.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re sure you’re not confusing the CIA with the CIA?”

“Excuse me?”

“Tad Hopkins graduated from the Culinary Institute of America. My experience with the CIA was in its federal cafeteria.”

“I know. And I can’t wait to get rid of Tad’s menu and put yours in its place. More importantly, our customers can’t wait, either. We’ll talk about your new work hours and salary in the morning.”

F
orty-three

“H
ELLO . . .” My eyes were still closed, my ears barely open.

“Clare, did you see it?”

“See what?” I rasped into the phone while glancing at the bedside clock. All I could make out were blurry numbers.

Last night, Mike and I celebrated the vanquishing of Hopkins the Horrible with a full bottle of champagne, my irresistibly festive Cherry and Port–Glazed Pork Tenderloin (wrapped in bacon), and my light and lovely Chocolate Kahlúa-Cream Whoopie Pies—not to mention a night of making whoopee.
(Okay, I mentioned it.)

This decadence wasn’t negligence on my part. I was supposed to have the morning off. Gardner had agreed to open the coffeehouse for me. Then he planned to crash until a few hours before our Jazz Space showtime.