Coffeehouse 09 - Roast Mortem Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  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

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  RECIPES & TIPS FROM THE VILLAGE BLEND

  GUIDE TO ROASTING COFFEE

  RECIPES

  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

  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

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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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 author’s 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 author 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 © 2010 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Coyle, Cleo.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18894-1

  1. Cosi, Clare (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Arson investigation—Fiction. 3. Coffeehouses—Fiction. 4. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.O94R63 2010

  813’.6—dc22 2010014028

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Hero is not a word one hears in the course of a typical workweek. When it’s used at all these days, it generally involves magic wands and superpowers. But if you’re a New Yorker who witnessed the events on September 11, 2001, then you know what a hero is. As the FDNY writes in its official description of its symbol, the Maltese Cross: Every firefighter works in courage, a ladder rung away from death, willing to lay down his life for you. This book is dedicated to the firefighters, paramedics, and police officers who lost their lives on 9/11. We will never forget you.

  The Terry Farrell Firefighters Fund was formed in honor of Terry Farrell, a decorated firefighter who perished on September 11, 2001. To find out more, visit the fund’s Web site at www.terryfarrellfund.org.

  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.Coffeeh
ouseMystery.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 rais
ed 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.