Roast Mortem cm-9

by Клео Коул

  Roast Mortem

  ( Coffeehouse Mysteries - 9 )

  Клео Коул

  The pseudonymous Coyle's strong 9th coffeehouse mystery (after 2009's Holiday Grind) pays tribute to New York City firefighters. Clare Cosi, the head barista at Village Blend; Blend owner Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois (who's Clare's ex-mother-in-law); and Blend employee Dante Silva narrowly escape death in the bomb-activated blaze that destroys Enzo Testa's Caffe Lucia in Queens and seriously injures Enzo. Clare informs the irritating, overly flirtatious FDNY captain, Michael Quinn, a cousin of her NYPD detective boyfriend, Mike Quinn, that she suspects arson. As fire marshal Stuart Rossi swings into action, Clare is eager to help catch the firebug (aka the Coffee Shop Arsonist), but Rossi is less than enthusiastic about her getting involved. Later, the arsonist torches a Long Island coffeehouse, killing a firefighter, as a warning. While the media worry that a terrorist is loose, new, even more horrible crimes surface. Coyle (the wife-husband writing team of Alice Alfonsi and Marc Cerasini) provides an appendix of useful tips and tempting recipes.

  Cleo Coyle

  Roast Mortem

  Acknowledgments

  While the characters and events of this book are complete fiction, part of the plotline was initially inspired by a real incident. (More on this in the afterword.) For now, I would like to thank several members of the FDNY who answered my questions (off the record) for background. I would also like to thank author Tom Downey for his excellent insider’s look at the New York City Fire Department — The Last Men Out: Life on the Edge at Rescue 2 Firehouse, a work I highly recommend to anyone whose interest in New York’s Bravest is sparked by this tale. Please note, however, that because this is a light work of amateur sleuth fiction, liberties are sometimes taken with procedure. In the Coffeehouse Mysteries the rules occasionally get bent.

  Once again, I thank the excellent Joe the Art of Coffee of New York City (www.JoetheArtofCoffee.com), including its co-owners, Jonathan Rubinstein and his sister Gabrielle Rubinstein. I also owe a big thank-you to their manager and coffee director Amanda Byron, who shared insights into the world behind her espresso machine, including her recommendation of a true barista bible, Espresso Coffee by David C. Schomer.

  My second java shout-out goes to the amazing Gimme! Coffee (www.GimmeCoffee.com) as well as its founder and CEO, Kenneth Cuddeback, for taking the time to speak with me about our favorite subject. I must also thank Gimme! for its inspiring handling of the Ethiopian Amaro Gayo, a unique and exotic coffee that also happens to be sold by Asnakech Thomas, the only female coffee miller and exporter in all of Ethiopia. Additional caffeinated hugs to Mary Tracy, a dedicated Coffeehouse Mystery reader, who recommended Gimme! to me.

  With epic gratitude, I would like to recognize the intrepid posse of publishing professionals at Berkley Prime Crime who shepherded this book from manuscript to printed page. Enormous thanks especially to executive editor Wendy McCurdy for her great goodwill as well as her ingenuity and insight. Props and snaps must also be given to Katherine Pelz for her hard work and gusto.

  As always, I thank my husband, Marc, who is my partner in writing not only this Coffeehouse Mystery series but also our Haunted Bookshop Mystery series. (A better partner a girl couldn’t ask for.)

  Last but far from least, a heartfelt thank you to our friends and family for their support as well as to our literary agent John Talbot, a premium professional and a darn good joe.

  Yours sincerely,

  Cleo Coyle

  www.CoffeehouseMystery.com

  Where coffee and crime are always brewing.

  Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.

  — Joan Crawford

  Prologue

  Cold here in the alley, but things will get hotter soon...

  The Arsonist moved deeper into the shadows, orange shopping bag in hand. Back on the busy Queens sidewalk, the day felt bright and balmy. Just a few steps away from humanity, all warmth fled and nearly all light.

  Weak shafts of sun barely penetrated the crisscrossing maze of phone wires and fire escapes, coaxial cables and clothing lines. With certain strides, the Arsonist bypassed iron grates and grimy windows, broken crates and dented trash cans. Finally the destination — one particular back door.

  Down went the glossy tangerine sack, squatting on the cold concrete. Cloying scents of soy and garlic still haunted its boxy interior, ghosts of last night’s Korean takeout. The reinforced bottom and laminated sides made it sturdy enough to carry the necessary items.

  Feeling sweaty despite the chill, the Arsonist bent over the shopping bag, grasped two wires from the battery, and fixed them to circuits on the bleach bottle with no bleach inside.

  Now it’s ready...

  The Arsonist rose, lifting the bag’s handles of nylon rope.

  Heavier now, or my imagination?

  Nervous fingers tested the shiny brass knob. Unlocked, as promised, the back door swung open on a small utility room. A sink, shelves, supplies neatly stacked.

  Male laughter seeped through the brocade curtain. The Arsonist crossed the tight space, teased apart the muffling fabric. An archway framed the caffè’s main room. Up front, the elderly owner gabbed with a customer about the rush hour pedestrian parade, mostly about the women.

  Stepping back, the Arsonist quickly searched out a spot for the bag. Under the shelf, behind the cleaning products...

  Perfect.

  A stifled sneeze, a few more steps, and the Arsonist was back on the sidewalk. Warmth, pedestrians, unobstructed light. It felt as if nothing had happened — or more like something good had happened.

  At 9:25 PM, the caffè would be closed, the old Italian off playing bocce in the park. No one would be in the building. No one would be hurt.

  Unless something goes wrong...

  That prick of a thought had vexed the Arsonist multiple times. This would be the last.

  After all, thought the Arsonist, it’s out of my hands now. The schedule was set for me, and I held up my end. Tonight Caffè Lucia will burn. If people get in the way, it’s their own stupid fault.

  One

  “Boss, I hate to leave you like this, but I have got to go.”

  “Go,” I told Esther. “We’ll be okay...”

  At least I hoped we would. I was standing behind my espresso machine, facing a line out my door. The usual Village Blend regulars were here along with a swell of caffeine-deprived commuters grabbing a java hit before heading home. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, and in most respects the day felt like any other. Except it wasn’t. This was the day the fires began. When the smoke finally cleared, the fatalities would number two, and they would not be accidents. The deaths would turn out to be murders and I, Clare Cosi, would be the one to prove it.

  At this particular moment, however, I wasn’t thinking about killers or arsonists, lovesick Italian women or blustery FDNY captains, and I certainly wasn’t thinking about a bomb. Mostly what I was thinking about was traffic.

  Tucker Burton, my lanky, floppy-haired assistant manager, had arrived on time for his shift and was just tying on his Village Blend apron. A part-time actor-playwright and occasional cabaret director, Tuck loved being a barista in the Italian tradition, which (like a good bartender) had as much to do with convivial customer interaction as it did with temperature and pressure.

  “Excuse me, Clare,” he said, “but where is Gardner again?”

  “Trapped in his car,” I replied, “on the New Jersey side of the Holland Tunnel.”

  Tuck pointed to Esther. “And why can’t our resident slam poetess stay and work another hour until he shows? I’ll bet my Actors’ Equity card she’s been late to more than a few of her classes.”


  Esther’s wine-dark fingertips went to her Botticelli waist. “Excuse me, Broadway Boy, but I am not simply taking this class. I am a TA and need to be there on time.”

  “For what? Introduction to Baggy Pants and Bling 101?”

  “Urban Rap’s Influence on Mainstream America!”

  “Who’s the professor? Eminem?”

  Esther smirked. “The man has a PhD from Brown in linguistics and is heading my program in the semiotics of urban expression.”

  “Yeah? And I know what seat he holds: the Snoop Dog Chair.”

  “Okay, you two, enough!” I turned to Tucker. “Let her off the hook.”

  “But it’s not very fair to you, Clare. You’ve been here since eight AM.”

  “And I can’t leave you here alone, can I? Traffic is traffic and Esther is a teaching assistant now. Her shift’s over and she has to go.”

  “Thank you!” she said.

  I caught her eye. “Just call Vicki Glockner, okay? Tell her I’ll give her double time until Gardner can get through that tunnel.”

  “Will do, boss,” Esther promised, and she was gone.

  Now my focus was back on that customer line. As Tuck manned the register and the single-cup Clover machine, I turned out the espresso drink orders: one Skinny Lat (latte with skim milk); one Breve Cap (cappuccino with half-and-half); 3 doppios (double espressos); one Cortado (a single shot caressed with steamed milk); two Flat Whites (cappuccinos without foam); one Americano (espresso diluted with hot water); two Thunder Thighs (double-tall mocha lattes with whole milk and extra whipped cream); and a Why Bother (decaf espresso).

  When the crush finally eased, I turned to the octogenarian sitting on the other side of my counter. Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois was looking as stylish as ever in a springy apricot pantsuit, her silver-gray hair coiffed into a super-naturally smooth twist.

  “I’m so sorry,” I told her, sliding a crema-rich espresso across the blueberry marble.

  “Why should you be sorry, dear?”

  “Because we’re going to be very late.”

  “C’est dommage,” Madame said, lifting the demitasse to her peach-glossed lips. “But Enzo will understand. Managerial setbacks are an inescapable aspect of New York’s miseen-scène.”

  “You mean like bureaucratic bribes and obscene levels of sales tax?”

  Madame’s reply was an amused little shrug. The woman’s Gallic aplomb was admirable, I had to admit, but then what was a minor traffic delay to someone who’d seen Nazi tanks roll down the Champs-Élysées?

  Given that I was half her age — with duskier skin, Italian hips, and a preference for discount store jeans — Madame and I made an incongruous pair. At our core, however, we weren’t so different, which was why our relationship had survived my late-teen pregnancy and hasty marriage to her wayward son, his drug addiction and recovery, our rocky divorce, and my decade spent in New Jersey exile before returning to Manhattan to run her beloved coffeehouse again.

  The latter development was the reason I’d agreed to drive Madame to Queens today. A valuable piece of Village Blend history was waiting for us at Astoria’s Caffè Lucia, and we were both determined to reclaim it.

  Just then my thigh vibrated — actually the cell phone in my pocket next to my thigh. I answered without checking the screen.

  “Gardner?” I asked, hoping my jazz-musician barista was calling to say he’d finally blown through the Holland Tunnel.

  “It’s Mike.”

  As in Mike Quinn, my boyfriend (for lack of a better word). He certainly wasn’t a boy and he was much more than a friend, although that’s the way we’d started out. The phrase “Mike is my lover” would have been accurate, but it sounded absurdly decadent to the ears of a girl who was raised by a strict Italian grandmother.

  “I’m sorry, Mike, I can’t talk — ”

  “Yes, you can, dear.” A hand touched my shoulder. I turned to find Madame behind me, tying on a Blend apron. “Take a break, Clare.”

  “But — ”

  “No buts. My hands are clean.” With a wink, Madame showed me. “And as you know, I’ve done this a few times before.”

  I would have argued, but I really did need to take five, so I pulled off my apron and grabbed her seat on the customer side of the bar.

  “Are you still driving to Queens?” Mike asked.

  “Slight delay but yes,” I said. “Why?”

  “I’ve got another meeting on the undercover operation,” he said. “It may run late, but I was still hoping to see you tonight.”

  “Just come by the duplex,” I said, happily accepting the freshly pulled double from my employer. “Use your key. You still have it, right?”

  “I still have it.” He paused. “So how’s your head?”

  “Better,” I lied, and took a reviving sip of the doppio.

  In fact, I was still recovering from the Quinn family’s St. Patrick’s Day bash the night before — “The annual event,” or so I was told by Mike’s clan. He was the only cop among a family of firefighters so he didn’t always attend (cops had their own gatherings), but this year Mike wanted to introduce me around.

  While the beer flowed like Trevi, I was regaled with heroic stories about the “Mighty Quinn,” Mike’s late father, a fire captain. Then Mike’s mother asked me if I’d be willing to contribute some coffeehouse specialties to the FDNY’s upcoming Five-Borough Bake Sale, and she promptly introduced me to the head of the coordinating committee — a lovely (and very sharp) woman named Valerie Noonan.

  “And have you made your decision yet?” Mike asked.

  I could almost hear him smiling over the cellular line, but I couldn’t blame him. I’d called the man three times today, obsessing over what would impress his family more: my cinnamon-sugar doughnut muffins; blueberries ’n’ cream coffee cake pie; or honey-glazed peach crostata with fresh ginger-infused whipped cream. There were always my pastry case standbys: caramelized banana bread; almond-roca scones; and mini Italian coffeehouse cakes. (Ricotta cheese was my secret ingredient to making those tasty little loaves tender and delicious.) They were absolutely perfect with coffee, and I topped each with a different glaze inspired by the gourmet syrups of my coffeehouse: chocolate-hazelnut; buttery toffee; candied orange-cinnamon; raspberry-white chocolate; and sugar-kissed lemon, the flavor found in my Romano “sweet,” an espresso served in a cup with its rim rubbed by a lemon twist, then dipped in granulated cane — the way the old-timers drank it in the Pennsylvania factory town where I’d grown up.

  “I think I should make them all,” I said.

  “All?”

  Am I trying too hard? I thought. Probably. Then I remembered tomorrow was March 19, the feast day of St. Joseph (patron saint of pastry chefs). Every year my nonna would fry up crunchy sweet bow tie cookies and set them out with hot, fresh, doughy zeppolinis in her little Italian grocery. That’s it!

  “I’ll make champagne cream puffs!”

  “Champagne cream puffs?”

  “Zeppole dough baked in the oven and filled with Asti Spumante-based zabaglione!”

  “It’s a bake sale, sweetheart, not a four-star dessert cart.”

  Just then our shop bell rang and a young woman with fluffy, crumpet-colored curls walked across our main floor. “Hey, everyone!” Vicki Glockner waved at me.

  “Mike, I’ve got to go. My relief is here.”

  “Okay,” he said, “but that’s why I called. It’s my turn to relieve you. Don’t worry about cooking tonight. I’ll get us takeout.”

  By the time I drove down the Queensboro Bridge ramp, dusk had fully descended, and streetlights were flickering on, their halogen bulbs pouring pools of blue-tinged light into an ocean of deepening darkness. Madame and I had been late getting started. Then a pileup on the bridge left me inching and lurching my way across the mile-long span. Now we were more than an hour behind schedule.

  “Do you want to try calling again?” I asked, swinging my old Honda beneath the subway’s elevated track
s.

  “It’s all right, dear,” Madame replied. “I left a message apologizing for our tardiness. Let’s hope Enzo picks it up.”

  Enzo was “Lorenzo” Testa, the owner of Caffè Lucia. He’d called Madame that morning, telling her he’d been cleaning out his basement and came across an old Blend roaster and a photo album with pictures of Madame and her late first husband, Antonio Allegro. While Madame was thrilled about the photos, I was itching to get my paws on the old Probat, a small-batch German coffee roaster, circa 1921. Enzo had bought it used from the Blend in the sixties.

  “So this man worked for you and Matt’s father,” I asked.

  Madame nodded. “He came to us fresh off the boat from Italy. An eager aspiring artist.”

  “Marlon Brando-ish? Isn’t that how you described him?”

  “More Victor Mature, dear. The young female customers absolutely swooned when they saw him in our shop or Washington Square Park — that’s where he liked to set up his painter’s easel.”

  “So he was hot stuff?”

  “Oh, yes. Smoldering male charisma, liquid bedroom gaze... Oo-la-la...”

  Oo-la-la? I suppressed a smile. “Is that why I’m the one driving you to Astoria to meet with him instead of Otto?”

  “My. Don’t you have a suspicious mind?”

  “I think we’ve already established that.”

  “Well, the answer to your question is no. My Otto would have taken me, but he has a very important business dinner lined up this evening so I’m a free agent.”

  “Uh-huh.” The last time Madame characterized herself as a “free agent” she was in East Hampton, enjoying a fling with a septuagenarian expert on Jackson Pollock.

  “And, besides,” she added. “I’ve wanted you to meet Enzo for ages. Given your background, I thought it was about time.”

  “Whatever became of Enzo’s art career, anyway?” (Myself an art school dropout, I couldn’t help wondering.) “Did his work ever sell?”