A Brew to a Kill
Page 1
A BREW
TO A KILL
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Cleo Coyle
Coffeehouse Mysteries
ON WHAT GROUNDS
THROUGH THE GRINDER
LATTE TROUBLE
MURDER MOST FROTHY
DECAFFEINATED CORPSE
FRENCH PRESSED
ESPRESSO SHOT
HOLIDAY GRIND
ROAST MORTEM
MURDER BY MOCHA
A BREW TO A KILL
Haunted Bookshop Mysteries writing as Alice Kimberly
THE GHOST AND MRS. MCCLURE
THE GHOST AND THE DEAD DEB
THE GHOST AND THE DEAD MAN’S LIBRARY
THE GHOST AND THE FEMME FATALE
THE GHOST AND THE HAUNTED MANSION
A BREW
TO A KILL
CLEO COYLE
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for authors or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reaction to the recipes contained in this book.
Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
A COFFEEHOUSE MYSTERY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Cover art by Cathy Gendron. Cover design and logo by Rita Frangie.
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FIRST EDITION: August 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Coyle, Cleo
A brew to a kill / Cleo Coyle.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-101-61070-1
1. Cosi, Clare (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Coffeehouses—Fiction. 3. New York (N. Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.094B74 2012 2012014539
813’.6—dc23
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
This book is dedicated to the hardworking street chefs
who run the food trucks and carts of New York City.
Long may you roll!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A Brew to a Kill is the eleventh book in the Coffeehouse Mystery series, and as many of you know, I’ve written all of them in collaboration with my very talented spouse, Marc Cerasini—a better partner a girl couldn’t ask for. He and I both owe a debt of gratitude to our publisher. First and foremost, we’d like to recognize our editor Wendy McCurdy for her unflagging support and professionalism. We’d also like to thank her son, Alex Schoch, for suggesting this book’s clever title, which set the perfect tone for the story.
The staff at Penguin’s Berkley Prime Crime is among the best in the business, and we sincerely thank them for shepherding this beautiful book into publication, including assistant editor Katherine Pelz, production editor Megan Gerrity, copyeditor Jessica McDonnell, and art director Rita Frangie.
The research behind A Brew to a Kill emerged from our decades of living and working in New York City. More recently, we credit a fast-moving culinary odyssey that began on Governors Island at the Vendy Awards, which annually honors the best street chefs of New York. Our voyage continued through the dynamic Asian community of Manhattan’s Chinatown, the eclectic peninsula of Red Hook, Brooklyn, and the polyglot neighborhoods of Queens, especially the warm and welcoming Filipino community of Little Manila in Woodside.
More specifically, we’d like to thank all twenty-two finalists in the 2011 Vendy Award’s cook-off competition for inspiring many of the culinary aspects of this mystery, especially the Cupcake Crew truck (www.cupcakecrewnyc.com). Please note that the members of this Cupcake Crew are kind, generous, and creative—in short, nothing like the completely fictional Kupcake Kween and her mischief-makers.
Thanks also to the La Bella Torte truck (www.labellatorte.com) for their delicious Italian pastries, good humor, and the saying on their truck. More than a famous movie quote, “Leave the gun, take the cannoli” pretty much defines what our Coffeehouse Mysteries are all about.
From our gastronomic research in Lower Manhattan’s Chinatown, we’d like to thank the very talented pastry chef John Wu and his Everything Frosted on Mosco Street (www.everythingfrosted.com/about_us.html). Another inspiration for the Kaylie express, this wonderful establishment also inspired Mrs. Li’s kitchen.
Our egg custard tart research included many bakeries in Chinatown, and we’d like to single out happy stops at Golden Manna Bakery on Bowery Steet and the Lucky King Bakery and Natalie Bakery Inc. on Grand. Thanks to all for the kind service and excellent tarts!
In Woodside, Queens’s Little Manila, we found valuable inspiration in Filipino cuisine at the beloved eatery Renee’s Kitchenette and Grill, as well as Engeline’s restaurant, and the East Coast outpost for Red Ribbon Bakery. You can find them all, too, via New York’s 7 train above Roosevelt Avenue.
As for the coffee research in this book, aspects of Matt’s Brazilian Ambrosia came from two superb offerings of San Francisco’s Ritual Coffee Roasters (www.ritualroasters.com): the Santa Lúcia and the Sao Benedito, both produced by the Pereira Family of Brazil. For barista background, we extend ongoing java thanks to one of the nation’s top coffee bars Joe, based in Greenwich Village, NYC (www.joetheartofcoffee.com).
With the utmost respect, we tip our hats to the NYPD in general and the Sixth Precinct of Greenwich Village in particular. Our interaction with New York’s Finest has been nothing but the finest. As to the Ps and Qs of police procedure, this is a light work of amateur sleuth fiction. In the Coffeehouse Mysteries, the rules occasionally get bent.
A “federal case” thank you to Coffeehouse Mystery reader “Barbara C.” whose own official work planted the seed of an idea in this one.
For consultation on matters medical, special thanks goes out to the best doc in the West, Dr. Grace Alfonsi, M.D. (If there are errors in this book, they are entir
ely our own.)
It’s no “co-inky-dink” that we’re also thanking CM reader Nancy Prior Phillips once again. Her wit and good humor continue to inspire us, as do so many of you who read our series and leave notes and messages via e-mail, our website’s message board, and the social networking sites. Your kind words keep us going as writers, and we can’t thank you enough for that.
Finally, we’d like to recognize our agent, John Talbot, for providing the kind of support and encouragement that keep authors moving forward.
To everyone else who we could not mention here by name, including friends and family, please know that your comments and heartfelt messages have kept our spirits up and fingers pressed to the keyboard. Our virtual coffeehouse is always open. You are more than welcome to join us online at www.CoffeehouseMystery.com.
—Cleo Coyle
New York City
Coffee…makes the politician wise,
And see thro’ all things with his half-shut eyes.
—Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock, Canto III
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
RECIPES & TIPS FROM THE VILLAGE BLEND
RECIPES
PROLOGUE
I feel… that I would like to wallow in crime this evening.
—“THE COMPANION,”
THE THIRTEEN PROBLEMS BY AGATHA CHRISTIE
PEERING through the sooty windshield, the Driver surveyed the scene. Not a thing was moving below the halogen halos of city streetlamps. No cars. No pedestrians. No witnesses. Only the lone cyclist on his two wheels and these four wheels stalking him.
Perfect, thought the Driver.
When the traffic signal slipped from red to green, the cyclist swung onto West Twentieth, his shiny red spandex vanishing in the predawn fog. The Driver counted to ten and rolled the battered van after him.
Not too close. Not yet…
With clueless passion, the cyclist pedaled, oblivious to the twin beams stabbing inexorably toward him. His destination was the Hudson River Greenway, thirty-two miles lapping the island of Manhattan. This personally prescribed route to the perfect body was a triweekly workout set in stone.
The Driver’s path was set, as well, the course conceived months ago, a map years in the making.
He’s moving faster. Don’t lose him…
With itchy anticipation, the Driver picked up speed. Out of the shadows darted a perky young jogger, shapely legs pumping. The Driver cursed, hit the brakes.
The cyclist slowed to ogle the girl, but the Driver knew this man—and his rapacious gaze. He would see only the girl’s flaws: breasts too small, nose too long, first hint of muffin top. All quite fixable—for the right price.
When the pretty runner reached the corner, the street was clear again. Closing the distance, the Driver waited one last time—for the bastard to turn, to look, to see exactly what was coming.
The engine roared, the tires spun, and the van leapt forward. With a shuddering thump, two tons of hurtling steel crushed man and bicycle.
“Not enough. Not nearly enough!”
The Driver braked, shifted into reverse, hit the gas once more. Another thump, and the van rocked. After a pause, the vehicle shot forward again.
“There you go, Doc! How’s that for a three-in-one?”
As the van sped away, a trail of sparks followed, a fiery display that ended with the dangling muffler breaking free. The Driver barely noticed. All that mattered was the course ahead.
The next deadly outing would require an audience. A far riskier prospect, but the plan was in motion; the truth inevitable: On the road to a better place, you had two options when something got in your way—
Change lanes or run it down.
With concrete resolve, the Driver had made that choice. “And now there’s no turning back. No matter who has to die…”
ONE
This seems to be the basic need of the human heart in nearly every great crisis—a good hot cup of coffee.
—I SHOULD
HAVE KISSED HER MORE BY ALEXANDER KING
“IN times like these, Clare, failing to take a risk is the biggest risk of all.”
Across the café table’s cool marble surface, Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois pinned me with her near-violet eyes. “Don’t you agree?”
Of course, I agree. I wanted to shout this, scream it. Risk and I were old friends, and if anyone knew that, my octogenarian employer did.
“Investing in the new coffee truck was my idea,” I reminded her between robust hits of espresso. “I know it’s a smart idea.”
“Good. Now all you must do is convince him.”
Him was Mateo Allegro—due to arrive within the hour. An international coffee broker, Matt was the Village Blend’s coffee buyer, Madame’s only child, my ex-husband, and the father of my pride named Joy.
“Like I told you, I tried to convince him…” (Half a dozen e-mails worth of “try” to be precise. When text didn’t work, I placed calls overseas. Lengthy calls. Enriching AT&T hadn’t helped, either.) “The man doesn’t listen, and he’s still in a state.”
Beneath the mauve silk of her mandarin jacket, Madame’s narrow shoulders gave a little shrug. “What can I say? He’s his father’s son. All that passion, all that intensity, all that tenacity—”
“Tenacity?” I knocked on the coral-colored tabletop. “Matt’s head could break this.”
“I wouldn’t count on it, dear. For one thing, that’s Italian marble. Very old Italian marble. Old things tend to be stronger than you think.”
Sitting back in my café chair, I ran my hands along the thighs of my blue jeans and attempted to fill my lungs with a healthy dose of equilibrium. It wasn’t easy. The sun may have set, but our coffeehouse commerce was far from winding down. A line of caffeine-deprived customers hugged the espresso bar, and beyond our wall of wide-open French doors, laughing latte lovers still packed our sidewalk tables.
The city was enjoying one of those glorious stretches of early summer weather, before the high humidity hits, when afternoons are sunny and clear, and nights are pleasantly temperate. Madame and I were perched between the two—the warmth of midday and the chill of midnight, when the sun clocks out and a magical light seems to soften New York’s hard edges.
I tried my best to drink in that gentleness, that calm. All day long I’d been on my feet, dealing with bickering baristas, demanding customers, and low stock. With the arrival of my assistant manager, Tucker, I finally took a load off, along with my Village Blend apron, to welcome the coolness of early evening with warm sips of caramelized peaberries.
Unfortunately, a single shot of espresso would not be enough caffeine. Something blacker than nightfall was headed my way, and before I knew it, the business troubling me would be murder.
At the moment, however, the business on the table (literally and figuratively) was coffee—and the question of how best to keep this business selling and serving it through the next century.
So far, Madame had seen things my way. And why not? Despite appearing as starched and restrained as a Park Avenue blueblood, Madame was a bohemian at heart, embracing the odd and offbeat. To her, authenticity mattered more than money. Flouting convention was a virtue, taking risks an asset.