Dead to the Last Drop Read Online Free Page A

but . . .” Abby chewed her bottom lip. “I will think about it.”
    “No,” Stan said.
    No? Stunned at Stan’s discouraging word, I opened my mouth to argue until I saw the young man’s hand reach across the table to affectionately squeeze Abby’s fingers.
    “Don’t think about it,” he said. “Because jazz isn’t about thinking—”
    “—it’s about feeling,” she joined in, finishing the saying in unison. “About taking what you know and letting go.”
    As the pair laughed together, Agent Cage redirected her frown from me to Stan.
    Abby didn’t appear to notice. She just continued laughing. Then she started talking with Stan about a duet they were working on. I noticed how animated she became and felt myself smiling—until she brushed away an errant strand of dark hair and I caught another glimpse of those pale white scars.
    I didn’t know much about the First Family. President Parker had been a centrist senator for years, rising in his party, and taking the White House without much drama. During the election cycle, it was Abby’s handsome, outspoken older brother, Kip, who’d been the media darling. Abby had remained far in the background—quiet, studious, private. The photos I did recall of her had little in common with her current look, and I couldn’t remember any stories, positive or negative, about her personal history.
    My thoughts were interrupted by Luther, our older assistant chef, who appeared with a big smile and a generous tray of savory selections from the kitchen: Sticky Chicken Wings glazed with his special sweet and tangy Carolina Mustard Barbecue Sauce; hot, crispy steak fries; fat, crunchy onion rings; Mini Meat Loaves with Smashed Baby Reds and Roasted Garlic Gravy; Sweet-Hot Honey-Chili Chicken; and, for dessert, Coffee Cups of Warm Apple Crisp with an Oatmeal Cookie Crumble Top, each waiting to be finished with a scoop of his No-Churn Cinnamon and Vanilla Bean Ice Cream.
    I wasn’t surprised that Abby and the band had chosen items from Luther’s Wednesday chalkboard specials. Most of our customers were doing the same, and I didn’t blame them, given the items on our young executive chef’s fussy, pricey standard menu—
    Pork Belly & Octopus on Black Rice; Honeycomb Tripe in a Chorizo-Pimento Nage; Oslo Creamed and Pickled Herring; Tuna Burger with Wasabi Mayo; Olive Oil Gelato with Rosemary Shortbread . . .
    Not that I had anything against bacon and seafood, cow’s stomach,Norwegian delicacies, or a tuna puck with green mayonnaise. And truth be told, the man’s olive oil gelato was absolutely delicious.
    But receipts didn’t lie.
    While five years ago Manhattan’s food critics may have crowned Chef Tad Hopkins a “culinary prodigy,” here and now, in our Georgetown Jazz Space, the man’s gourmet fare was a resounding flop.
    The only nights that our kitchen made a profit were Tuesdays and Wednesdays, the chef’s days off, when Luther ran the kitchen—and whipped up his down-home daily specials.
    Several times I tried to speak to our executive chef about his menu, but he refused to listen. So tonight, I’d come in to hear customer feedback with my own ears.
    In the meantime, I noticed Stan talking into Gard’s ear. A few minutes later, my co-manager swallowed the last of his sticky wings, wiped his lips of the tangy-sweet goodness, and cleared his throat.
    “So, Abby, what do you think of coming back next Saturday night? To perform, I mean?”
    “But there’s no Open Mike on Saturdays.”
    “Our headliner canceled, so this would be a paid gig. Besides, Sticks insisted I ask.” Gard nudged the drummer until Stan grinned behind his Captain America eye patch. “I think he’s hot to play that duet you two have been working on.”
    “Oh, that would be awesome!” Abby cried, then turned to Stan. “But are we ready? There are still some rough spots.”
    Stan shrugged. “So we’ll practice every day. We have a week.”
    I could see the excitement in