by Cleo Coyle
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
HOLIDAY BUZZ
BILLIONAIRE BLEND
ONCE UPON A GRIND
DEAD TO THE LAST DROP
DEAD COLD BREW
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
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
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Copyright © 2017 by Penguin Random House LLC
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Coyle, Cleo, author.
Title: Dead cold brew / Cleo Coyle.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2017. |
Series: A coffeehouse mystery ; [16]
Identifiers: LCCN 2016038788 (print) | LCCN 2016044522 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780425276112 (hardback) | ISBN 9780698167407 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Cosi, Clare (Fictitious character)—Fiction. |
Women detectives—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. |
Coffeehouses—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women
Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.O94 D415 2017 (print) | LCC PS3603.O94 (ebook) |
DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016038788
First Edition: January 2017
Cover art by Cathy Gendron
Cover design and logo by Rita Frangie
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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 reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
Version_1
I believe cats to be spirits come to earth. A cat, I am sure, could walk on a cloud without coming through.
—Jules Verne
This book is dedicated to the memory of Nemo, Punkin, and “Little Dick” Grayson, three New York strays who lifted our earthly spirits—and now walk among the clouds.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Dead Cold Brew is the sixteenth entry in our Coffeehouse Mysteries. As our longtime readers know, I have written every one with my very talented spouse, Marc Cerasini. I couldn’t ask for a better partner—in writing or in life.
Both Marc and I have been long intrigued by the stunning fate of Italy’s SS Andrea Doria. Though the mystery in these pages is fictional, the shipwreck was all too real, and we are grateful to the sources that provided details of that tragic history, including Life magazine (August 6, 1956).
For further reading on the subject, our suggestions include: Alvin Moscow’s Collision Course, perhaps the best all-round history; Richard Goldstein’s Desperate Hours, which tells the story through the testimonies of survivors and eyewitnesses; and Kevin F. McMurray’s Deep Descent, which focuses on attempts by scuba divers to explore the sunken hulk, despite the perils.
A few of New York City’s many “secret places” were also important to this tale.
The real-life model for Gus Campana’s jewelry shop and backhouse is located at 93 Perry Street. You can view photos of the property at Nick Carr’s website Scouting New York: scoutingny.com/the-secret-courtyard-on-perry -street.
Author H. P. Lovecraft used this very Perry Street address in a 1926 short story “He,” which you can read in The Call of Cthulhu and Other Weird Stories by H. P. Lovecraft (Penguin 20th Century Classics, 1999).
Our second secret place is found inside the 21 Club, a New York City institution with a history that stretches back to the dark days of the Volstead Act. Today you can legally partake of a cocktail at this historic speakeasy—as long as you’re of drinking age, of course! And its kitchen continues to serve one of the most famous menus in the city. Learn more at: 21club.com
To learn about more secret New York places mentioned in our book, drop by our website: coffeehousemystery.com.
For coffee inspiration in this entry in the series, we thank the New York–based coffee company Joe and its flagship store in Greenwich Village (joenewyork.com) as well as Intelligentsia Coffee of Chicago, LA, and NYC (intelligentsiacoffee.com), and Big Island Coffee Roasters of Hawaii (bigis landcoffeeroasters.com).
Our interaction with New York’s Finest is always nothing but the finest, and we thank them for providing answers to our questions, and risking their blue lives every day. Do bear in mind that this is a work of amateur sleuth fiction, and the rules occasionally get bent— or witness “corrected,” as Sergeant Emmanuel Franco might say.
A continued caffeinated round of applause goes to everyone at our publisher who helped put this book into your hands. Special thanks to Kate Seaver, our editor, whose valuable suggestions made our story stronger. Cheers also go out to assistant editor Katherine Pelz for keeping us on track; to senior production editor Stacy Edwards and copyeditor Marianne Aguiar for their kind diligence. We also sincerely thank our designers Rita Frangie and Kristin del Rosario, as well as Roxanne Jones in publicity for their hard work.
Another salute goes to artist Cathy Gendron for her unique and striking covers.
To John Talbot, our longtime agent, we send heartfelt appreciation for the treasure of his support and professionalism.
Last but far from least, special thanks to everyone whom we could not mention by name, including friends, family, and so many of you who read our books and send us notes via e-mail, our website’s message board, and on social media. Your encouragement keeps us going, and we cannot thank you enough for that.
Our virtual coffeehouse is always open. Marc and I invite you to join our Coffeehouse community at coffeehousemystery.com where you will find recipes, coffee picks, and a link to stay in touch by signing up for our newsletter.
—Cleo Coyle,
New York City
Drown your troubles in coffee.
—Unknown
People who drink to drown their sorrow should be told that sorrow knows how to swim.
—Ann Landers
CONTENTS
Berkley Prime Crime Ti
tles by Cleo Coyle
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Chapter Eighty-four
Chapter Eighty-five
Chapter Eighty-six
Chapter Eighty-seven
Chapter Eighty-eight
Chapter Eighty-nine
Epilogue
Recipes & Tips from the Village Blend
How to Make Cold Brew Coffee
Recipes
PROLOGUE
11:10 PM, July 25, 1956
Off the coast of Nantucket
HE was red-faced again, too much wine at dinner.
In the ship’s dining room Angelica Campana watched her husband drink, all smiles—until the gallant ship’s officer complimented her dress, her hair, made her laugh.
That’s when the storm clouds returned, forming in Gustavo’s dark, cold gaze. Their tablemates failed to notice. Nor did they question her husband’s thirst for more Primitivo. They saw only the fine fabric of his suit, the oily smoothness of his flattery. But Angelica saw the portents. And she knew what was coming.
Alone in their cabin, she resisted; she always did. He would laugh at her feeble defense, then at her tears as he would belittle her, force himself on her.
The brat of a boy had grown into a conceited man, spinning righteous reasons for his “punishments,” reasons she believed, until the light of love, real love, had shown her another truth—
There was nothing wrong with her. He was the twisted one, taking pleasure from her pain.
As a backward teenage bride, orphaned in the terrible war, she believed she’d found a savior. For too long she had endured his filthy accusations and stinging slaps, even prayed to God for forgiveness . . . and then her own death. Until her baby came. After that, she prayed for strength. Not an end to life, but a chance to make a new one for herself and her little Perla.
In time, he grew bored with her and took a mistress. The beatings stopped and life improved—until these last few months, when the storms returned.
That night, aboard the elegant Andrea Doria, in the depths of the fateful fog, she prayed her hardest, even as his fat fingers strangled her slender wrist, even as his free hand rose high to administer his brutal “correction” for her “whorish flirtations”—
But the blow never came. A screech of rending metal froze his arm, and then a terrible impact flung husband and wife against the steel bulkhead.
The awful crash ended the man’s curses, but not his contempt. When she groped for help, he shoved her away.
A moment before, she feared the horrible names he called her would be heard by the others in first class. Now only the gushing roar of water and cries of terrified souls filled the ship’s corridors.
Amid the screams and chaos, she heard a woman shout—
“La nave sta affondando!” The ship is sinking!
Cold sea water gushed under their stateroom door as the ship tilted so severely she feared it would capsize. Instead, the mighty ocean liner rocked like a toy in a baby’s tub before settling on one side. The earsplitting noises of the shipwreck quieted, too, and that’s when she heard her little pearl—
“Mamma! Mamma!”
Despite the rising water and sloping floor, Angelica reached the bathroom door. Her husband had shoved the child inside and wedged a chair against the knob. Now the chair was gone, but the knob was jammed. Whatever crippled the ship had warped the door, trapping her four-year-old in a tiny room filling with water.
Angelica begged Gustavo to help.
But his focus remained on the dresser, his fat hands ripping open the top drawer with the same possessive greed he’d used to rip her gown.
The jewel! That’s all he cares about. Not the beauty of the diamond or its rich history, but only for the fortune it will bring him in America.
Pig eyes, bright as polished jet, glanced her way as he thrust the silk bag under his lapel. Again she pleaded for help, but his weak chin lifted in smug superiority as his hand moved to a vest pocket.
When they first boarded the ship, he’d pulled out his jeweler’s tools and fiddled with the stateroom door. Like their bedroom in Italy, he wanted the option of locking her in. Now he held the room’s key, and she knew why.
He means to lock us in! Me and my little girl!
At dinner she’d watched him flirting with that young American, heard him boast about his family’s jewelry business, his plan to help them start anew in New York—as he wished to start anew, a free man in a New World.
The shipwreck had given him an easy way to end the burden of his “harlot” wife and troublesome daughter.
“No!” Angelica cried. “I won’t let you!”
She always thought herself weak and helpless. Now a power
rose in her that she could not explain. Like a rocket ignited, she flew across the room, years of abuse propelling her petite form into his thick body.
Shocked by the attack, his feet slipped out from under him.
“Mamma! Mamma!”
The baby’s cries sent her over the edge. Protective ferocity drove her now, an instinct so primitive, it blocked all senses. She even failed to hear or see the two men who burst in on a rescue mission.
The men gawked at the young Italian beauty in the shredded evening gown, her body draped over a heavyset, middle-aged man. Unsure what she was doing, they focused instead on the little girl’s cries behind a warped door.
The pair waded across the room. The first man, a strong, young Italian with a head of thick, dark hair, kicked in the door and snatched up the child. Turning to her parents, he finally realized what was taking place.
The young beauty straddling her husband was not giving him aid. She was holding his head down.
The men exchanged glances, but—for very different reasons—neither interfered.
In the ruined stateroom of the sinking ship, two silent witnesses watched Angelica Campana drown her husband in the rising waters of the dark, cold deep.
ONE
Sixty years later . . .
A pelting rain transformed the Village Blend’s French windows into tiny, wood-framed waterfalls. I pulled my sweater tight against the autumn chill and considered the predawn clouds.
Sure, the weather was lousy, and it was the first day of another long workweek, but (all due respect to the Carpenters) I utterly refused to let rainy days or Mondays get me down.
Why should they? I was back home in New York, once again managing my beloved Greenwich Village coffeehouse and living in the same city as the man I loved. Everything felt so right, what could possibly go wrong—other than my opening team calling in late?
Hey, an easy enough problem to handle.
Switching tunes, I swayed across the restored plank floor to the “Rhythm of the Rain.” Humming the old Cascades hit, I pulled upside-down chairs from the café tabletops, setting things right as I went.
Next I calibrated the espresso machine, restocked our dairy products, and accepted the pastry delivery. I was about to kindle a blaze in the brick hearth to dispel the dampness when my phone buzzed.
