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
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
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-16735-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Coyle, Cleo.
Dead to the last drop / Cleo Coyle.—First edition.
pages ; cm.—A coffeehouse mystery ; [15]
ISBN 978-0-425-27609-9 (hardback)
1. Cosi, Clare (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.O94D42 2015
813'.6—dc23
2015030696
Cover illustration 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
To Wendy McCurdy, our longtime editor, for her brilliance, her patience, her kindness . . . and her belief in us.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My first thank-you is to my husband and cowriter, Marc Cerasini. Dead to the Last Drop marks the fifteenth book in our long-running Coffeehouse series, and I couldn’t ask for a better partner in writing—or in life.
Our nation’s beautiful capital city of Washington, DC, is second on my thank-you list. My DC experiences—interning as a newspaper reporter, studying at American University, and enjoying the nightlife of Georgetown—stayed with me for years and helped inspire key elements in the story that you’re about to read.
For coffee inspiration, Marc and I thank Holly O’Connor of One Good Woman coffee and teas from around the world, onegoodwoman.com, along with her Baltimore-based master roaster, Shannan Stroble, of Source Coffee for taking the time to share details of their life and work.
Special thanks is in order for Thomas Blanton, national security archive director, GWU, for his eye-opening appearance at the Washington National Press Club, which fueled and informed a subplot in this mystery, including the “thirty-year gap” in government e-mail archiving. See the appendix of this book for helpful links to learn more about this archiving gap and the National Security Archive, the U.S. National Archives, and the FOIA (Freedom of Information Act).
Thanks to author Ronald Kessler for information on guarding the children of the President. To learn more about the lives of U.S. Secret Service agents, read his informative book The First Family Detail.
Props must be paid to the Smithsonian Institution and especially its beautiful National Museum of American History, americanhistory.si.edu. If you have never been to the Smithsonian Museums, put it on your bucket list. You won’t be sorry.
Many years ago, I hosted a radio program on WRCT FM titled “Alice’s Jazzy Restaurant,” which allowed me to celebrate brilliant jazz artists, who also inspired what you’re about to read. My thanks goes out to those artists, especially my old friend George Gee, georgegee.com, and the clubs who keep jazz alive, including: Blues Alley in Georgetown, bluesalley.com; the Blue Note, bluenote.net; and a tiny club called Smalls, where you can join me nightly in watching live jazz because their website streams directly from their Greenwich Village stage, smallsjazzclub.com.
Cheers to everyone at Berkley Prime Crime who had a hand in creating this beautiful finished book, especially our longtime editor, Wendy McCurdy—and our new editor, Kate Seaver! Our grateful appreciation goes out to assistant editor Katherine Pelz for cheerfully keeping us on track, production editor Stacy Edwards for her tireless efforts, and copyeditor Randie Lipkin for her kind diligence. We also thank our talented designers Rita Frangie and Kristin del Rosario, and our Coffeehouse Mysteries cover artist Cathy Gendron, a brilliant painter to the last drop.
Last but far from least Marc and I send a triple caffeinated thank-you to our friends and family, our fantastic readers, our tireless booster Nancy Prior Phillips, and our dedicated agent, John Talbot, for their continued faith in us.
In closing, Marc and I invite you to join our wonderful 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.
May you eat, drink, and read with joy!
—Cleo Coyle
CONTENTS
Berkley Prime Crime titles 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-thre
e
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
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-one
Chapter Ninety-two
Chapter Ninety-three
Chapter Ninety-four
Chapter Ninety-five
Chapter Ninety-six
Chapter Ninety-seven
Chapter Ninety-eight
Chapter Ninety-nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred One
Chapter One Hundred Two
Chapter One Hundred Three
Chapter One Hundred Four
Chapter One Hundred Five
Chapter One Hundred Six
Chapter One Hundred Seven
Chapter One Hundred Eight
Chapter One Hundred Nine
Chapter One Hundred Ten
Chapter One Hundred Eleven
Chapter One Hundred Twelve
Chapter One Hundred Thirteen
Epilogue
Coffee and the Presidency
Abby Lane’s Playlist
Freedom of Information Act Resources
Recipes and Tips from The Village Blend
Coffee, the favorite drink of the civilized world.
—Thomas Jefferson
Ethics are more important than laws.
—Wynton Marsalis, artistic director, Jazz at Lincoln Center
Prologue
HE stomped the brake and glared at the BMW swerving into his lane. I could smash this idiot’s bumper, but it won’t get me to her any faster . . .
Suppressing the urge to turn this SUV into a battering ram, he laid on the horn instead. It worked. The Beemer swung out of his path and he hit the gas, running the next two yellow lights.
Thanks to the Cherry Blossom Festival, the DC streets were flooded with a sea of rentals, complete with drivers rattled by Washington’s infamous traffic circles.
Built for an era of horses and buggies, the circles were a rite of passage for newcomers, as confusing as many of the rules for navigating this town. His first boss at Justice had tried to warn him about some of those twists and turns before the cancer killed him.
Now she was his prime concern.
Fingers strangling the wheel, he feared the worst, that he might be too late. Seeing congestion ahead, he cut the wheel, swinging onto 31st, a Georgetown residential street that gave him clearance to fly. Then two quick lefts and he was exactly where he needed to be, Wisconsin’s 1200 block.
He double-parked, reached into his suit jacket, and popped the thumb snap on his holstered Glock. Whatever it takes to keep her safe . . .
The Village Blend, DC, was beyond busy, its line spilling onto the sunny sidewalk—locals, college kids, selfie-taking tourists.
“Hey!” A boy with a backpack poked the air. “Cutting the line’s not cool. You can’t—”
A single, arctic stare was all it took to freeze the kid—because in this city, a dead-eyed look from a big guy in a suit meant one thing . . . federal agent. In this case, armed and pissed federal agent.
Inside the shop, he looked for her, his body and soul relieved to find her busy behind the espresso bar. Green eyes brightened at the sight of his approach. Lips parted in surprise and then melted into that special smile, the one reserved only for him.
“Mike, I’m happy to see you, but I’m in the middle of—”
“You’re coming with me.”
“What?”
“Right now, Clare.”
Confusion wiped her smile. She didn’t want to go. But she will, he thought, even if I have to cuff her and carry her out.
“Can you tell me why?”
“No time.” He extended his hand. “If you trust me, you’ll come . . .”
A moment’s hesitation and she took it.
He pulled her outside, practically pushed her into the vehicle, slammed their doors, and peeled out.
“Whose car is this?”
“Not mine and not yours—and that’s the point. If you have a mobile, we have to toss it.”
“It’s back at the coffeehouse, in my handbag!”
“Good. At least they can’t trace us. I’ve already disabled the LoJack.”
“Mike, what is going on?”
He swung off the crowded avenue and zigzagged his way toward the Potomac. “Open the glove compartment.”
She did, saw a travel guide, sunglasses, and a .45. “Now you’re scaring me.”
“Why? I taught you to shoot. You don’t have to be afraid of it.”
“I’m not afraid of it. What’s scaring me is you!”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but lives are in jeopardy.”
“Whose?”
“Ours. And we’ve only got a narrow window to change that.”
Glancing her way, he saw her struggling to process his words. For a rare minute of time, he realized Clare Cosi had been rendered speechless.
The afternoon sun was unforgiving, revealing the crow’s-feet at the edges of her eyes, the tiny wrinkles around her downturned mouth. But the golden light also burnished the red strands in her dark chestnut hair. And though her ponytail was coming undone, she wasn’t.
The woman he loved was strong, one of the most resilient spirits he knew, and one of the most stubborn, but it was her loyalty that made her one of the best partners he could have in this situation—that and her innate nosiness.
“Clare, I need you to talk to me about Abby.”
“Abby? You mean—”
“I need to know everything.”
“But you know most of it already.”
“Most of it, not all of it, and I need you to go over it all, even the parts you think I know. No matter how trivial a fact may seem, tell me. Remember,
Clare, details matter . . .”
Leaning back, she took a breath. “Then I suppose I should start with Nox Horrenda.”
“What?”
“It’s how I think of it: that horrible night.”
“The night of the first homicide?”
“Yes—although I didn’t know it was murder. Not then. And it wasn’t the first time I saw the victim, that was a week before. The same night I spotted two armed men in my coffeehouse.”
“Back up, sweetheart. What armed men?”
And that’s where her story began . . .
One
“GARDNER, get off the phone.”
“Why?”
“Just do it!”
Still panting from my upstairs sprint, I counted the seconds, waiting for my young co-manager to end his call.
Like the rest of this former bakery, the top floor of our rented building felt as big as a barn. Tall windows bathed the place in sunshine—when the sun was up, that is. Nights were a different story.
None of the fireplaces were working yet, which made this high-ceilinged beauty impossible to properly heat; and on this moonless February evening, in heels, hose, and a little blue dress, I hugged myself to suppress a shiver.
Our DC location hadn’t always been a bakery. Around 1865, it became a confectionary shop with an ice cream parlor so beloved that the Smithsonian’s Museum of American History preserved a portion of its interior in its Hall of Everyday Life.
My everyday life wasn’t nearly so fixed.
At first my move here had been a joy. My elderly employer had found me an elegant situation, house-sitting a historic Georgetown mansion.
Madame Dreyfus Allegro Dubois had made flocks of influential friends in her eighty-plus years running her New York coffee business, so I wasn’t surprised that among them was the absent owner of said mansion.
Madame had even bunked with me for a few weeks to help us open our DC doors—and cut some red tape for a temporary liquor license. Then she headed back to New York, and for the next two months, I settled into a routine with my co-manager, a talented African American jazz musician named Gardner Evans who’d worked for years as a part-time barista in our New York shop.
Hailing from the Baltimore area, Gard had harbored a childhood dream to open a jazz club in Washington; and, given the longtime success of the legendary Blues Alley (just down the avenue from our DC digs), our elderly owner was thrilled to give the concept her blessing, as well as her funding.
