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
SHOT IN THE DARK
BREWED AWAKENING
Haunted Bookshop Mysteries
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
THE GHOST AND THE BOGUS BESTSELLER
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2019 by Alice Alfonsi and Marc Cerasini
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A COFFEEHOUSE MYSTERY is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Coyle, Cleo, author.
Title: Brewed awakening / Cleo Coyle.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2019. |
Series: A coffeehouse mystery; book 18
Identifiers: LCCN 2019034510 (print) | LCCN 2019034511 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451488879 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780451488886 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Cosi, Clare (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Women detectives—Fiction. |
Coffeehouses—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.O94 B75 2019 (print) | LCC PS3603.O94 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034510
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034511
First Edition: December 2019
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
Until one has loved an animal,
a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.
—Anatole France
This book is dedicated to two beloved cats, Cub and Mr. Fellowes, now gone to sleep, but forever alive in our memories.
CONTENTS
Also by Cleo Coyle
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five: Madame
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight: Clare
Chapter Nine: Madame
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven: Clare
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: Mike
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight: Clare
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty: Mike
Chapter Forty-one: Clare
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven: Mike
Chapter Forty-eight: Clare
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four: Mike
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight: Clare
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: Mike
Chapter Seventy-one: Clare
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven: Mike
Chapter Seventy-eight: Clare
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one: Mike
Chapter Eighty-two: Clare
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
Recipes & Tips from the Village BlendThe Village Blend’s Blueberry Shortbread
The Village Blend’s Strawberry Cream Cheese Scones with Strawberry Glaze
The Village Blend’s Pistachio Muffins
Cacio e Matteo
Matt’s Coffee Beef Stew
Clare Cosi’s Crusty Italian-Style Rolls
Parkview Palace Salad
Candied Pecans
Champagne Chicken Paprikash
KFC-Style Fried Chicken
Coffee and Cream Cake
Mocha Buttercream
How to Make a More Stable Whipped Cream Filling or Frosting
How to Make Chocolate Curls
The Daisy Fay
The Nostalgia’s Gin Daisy Fay
The Village Blend’s Latest Hit Goobers Cookies
Clare’s Cozy Maple Sugar Cookies
Clare’s Chocolate Chip Coffee Cake
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Brewed Awakening is our eighteenth Coffeehouse Mystery. As our longtime readers know, I write this series with my talented spouse, Marc Cerasini. Like every married couple, we have good days and bad days, but I’m thankful every day for the gift of Marc’s partnership—in writing and in life.
The inspiration for this story began with a conversation. If our history as a couple were to be wiped clean, would we still be drawn to each other? How does “like” deepen into something more? When does love happen?
With two of our main characters on a path to be married, we decided to explore these questions within the plotline of this mystery and agreed the fulcrum of the tale would be memory loss.
Although Clare’s story is fictional, we were inspired, through our research, by many remarkable true cases of amnesia, including a married woman whose traumatic accident resulted in forgetting her own husband—and believing her teenage daughter was still a toddler. In another case, a young teacher disappeared after going for a jog, and then reappeared, floating in New York Harbor, with no memory of how she got there or the weeks she went missing. (We could go on, but you get the idea.)
Other elements in Brewed Awakening were inspired by our decades of living and working in New York. While the Parkview Palace exists only in our imagination, you can visit many of the grand hotels that inspired its creation, including the Plaza (theplazany.com), the Pierre (thepierreny.com), and the Lotte New York Palace, formerly known as The Helmsley Palace (lottenypalace.com).
Our fictional Gypsy boutique hotel was also inspired by a real one: Paper Factory Hotel (paperfactoryhotel.com) of Long Island City, Queens, a uniquely modern inn that was literally transformed from a 100-year-old paper factory.
For coffee inspiration, we thank the folks at Hampton Coffee Company (hamptoncoffeecompany.com), an independent coffee roaster and retailer that pioneered micro-roasting on the East Coast, and whose dedication to freshly roasted joy is never short of admirable.
Our interaction with New York’s Finest is always nothing but the finest, and we thank them for providing answers to our questions. For deviations from doctrine, we plead the author’s defense—in the service of fiction, rules occasionally get bent.
Caffeinated cheers go to our publisher and the diligent crew who helped put this book into your hands. We are especially grateful to our editor, Michelle Vega, whose valuable input strengthened our story. Thanks also to editorial assistant Jennifer Snyder and production editor Stacy Edwards for keeping us on track; as well as to copyeditor Frank Walgren, our designers Rita Frangie and Kristin del Rosario, and our marketing and publicity team, Elisha Katz and Brittanie Black, for their essential contributions.
To the brilliant artist Cathy Gendron, we send sincerest appreciation for another spectacular Coffeehouse Mystery cover.
To John Talbot, our literary agent, we continue to treasure your patient support and consummate professionalism.
Last but far from least, we send love and gratitude 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.
Whether you are new to our world or a devoted reader, Marc and I invite you to join our Coffeehouse community at coffeehousemystery.com, where you will find recipes, coffee picks, and a link to keep in touch by signing up for our newsletter. May you eat, drink, and read with joy!
—Cleo Coyle,
New York City
It’s no use going back to yesterday, because
I was a different person then.
—Lewis Carroll
PROLOGUE
Two months ago
NYPD detectives Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass led a pack of uniformed officers through the door of my busy coffeehouse. Seeing their grave expressions, I feared something terrible had happened to Mike Quinn, and they’d come to deliver the grim news.
Despite my worries, I faced the women squarely.
“Detectives, how can I help you tonight?”
“Clare Cosi, we’re here to place you under arrest.”
With customers chattering around me, and the fire crackling loudly in the Village Blend’s hearth, I assumed I’d heard wrong.
“Arrest me?”
Sue Ellen Bass, the more volatile of the pair, glanced at the small army of uniforms behind her and reached for the handcuffs on her belt.
“Did you think you could get away with grand theft?”
I blinked. “Are you kidding?”
“This is serious,” Lori Soles said. “In New York State, stealing a police lieutenant’s heart is a Class-A felony.”
Suddenly the wall of uniforms parted, and there was Detective Mike Quinn down on one knee. Wearing a rare smile and his best blue suit, he lifted a white ring box.
Time seemed to stop, the packed coffeehouse stilling with it.
Among the captivated crowd, I noticed the shaved head and grinning face of Sergeant Franco, the young detective my daughter was seeing. He was holding up his mobile phone, recording the scene for posterity—and, I suspected, for Joy to watch from her job in DC.
“Clare, I love you,” Mike began plainly, “and I know you love me.”
Opening the white box, he revealed a perfect diamond, its ice-blue color shining as brilliantly as the good in his eyes. Around the center, a circle of smaller coffee diamonds winked warmly in the glow of the firelight.
“I have something to ask you,” he said. “And you’d better think hard about your answer. With these law officers as witnesses, it’s going to be tough to change your story.”
I nodded numbly, waiting for the words.
“Clare Cosi, will you marry me?”
My eyes blurred, emotions swirling, and my mind flashed back to the first time I saw this man, standing in my coffeehouse doorway, his expression haggard, jaw rough with stubble, trench coat stained and wrinkled. Never had I seen a soul more in need of caffeine.
But Mike hadn’t come for coffee that day. He was there to inspect a crime scene; and, by the end of that case, he’d become a regular customer and eventually a good friend. Passion blossomed naturally between us. Trust wasn’t as simple—at lea
st for me.
My first wedding had led me into such cavernous misery that I’d been reluctant to step one foot back into that chasm. Mike had been battered by a bad marriage, too, but he was willing to try again, and I knew the reason. While the cop in him appreciated a friend and cherished a lover, what he valued more than anything was a partner.
As gun-shy as I was, I came to realize the painful cost of not moving forward, which is why, in a voice choked with happy tears, I said yes to Mike’s proposal.
Yes to a new partnership.
Yes to a new beginning.
Yes to another chance with another man, in so many ways, a better man.
I would take my time planning this wedding, a big one, with all our friends and family. This ceremony would be a true celebration, nothing like my first, when I was alone and pregnant, an anxious nineteen-year-old, half-desperate to be saved by a City Hall union to a peripatetic coffee hunter, little more than a boy himself.
Before me now, on one knee, was no boy. Mike Quinn was my rock, and I was his. How right this actual rock looked in his hand. Polished with patience, shimmering with certainty, fixed on an unending circle, it was the perfect symbol of what we shared together, and the years it took to make this moment. As he slipped it on my finger, I knew with complete conviction that I would love this man forever.
And this would be a day I’d never forget.
ONE
I like coffee because it gives me the illusion that I might be awake.
—LEWIS BLACK
Two months later
I awoke in darkness, curled in a shivering ball. I’d been a restless sleeper since my divorce, and I assumed I’d kicked off the blankets. So why was something still covering my face? Heavy and stiff, it was definitely not my well-worn J.C. Penney comfort quilt.
A blaring horn and a string of angry expletives sat me up fast. A coat fell away from my face, and I blinked against a misty-morning sun peeking through naked branches.
Feeling dizzy, I rubbed my eyes before deciding—
This is no dream. This is real.
I tried to rise but my joints were stiff. My right arm was so numb that I had to shake it out. More troubling was the fact that somehow—and I could not for the life of me remember how—I wasn’t in my nice warm bed in my cozy little bedroom in New Jersey. I was sprawled across a hard, cold bench in a public park, close enough to the street for me to hear a cabby cursing out the driver in front of him, which sounded an awful lot like Manhattan.
