Once Upon a Grind Read online

  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

  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) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

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  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  Copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

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  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-13738-7

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Coyle, Cleo.

  Once upon a grind / Cleo Coyle.—First edition.

  pages ; cm.—(A coffeehouse mystery ; 14)

  ISBN 978-0-425-27085-1 (hardcover)

  1. Cosi, Clare (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—Fiction. 3. Coffeehouses—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.O94O53 2014

  813'.6—dc23

  2014032525

  FIRST EDITION: December 2014

  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

  There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.

  —Albert Schweitzer

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Turtle, a little New York stray who brought joy to our lives for nineteen years. She sat on my lap through the writing of every tale in that time, including this one.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once Upon a Grind marks the fourteenth entry in our Coffeehouse Mysteries, and Marc and I thought it fitting that a fairy-tale mystery set in New York City should begin in Central Park, a storybook world unto itself. From the towers of Belvedere Castle to the Ramble’s shadowy woodland, the Park’s eight-hundred-plus acres operate under the care of the Central Park Conservancy, and we thank them for answering our questions, and more importantly for the work they do in preserving our nation’s first major landscaped public park. To learn more, visit them at centralparknyc.org.

  Our interaction with New York’s Finest has been nothing but the finest, and we thank them for providing answers to our questions, especially about the NYPD’s Mounted Unit. As to the Ps and Qs of police procedure, this is a light work of amateur sleuth fiction. In the Coffeehouse Mysteries, the rules occasionally get bent.

  The rest of the research behind Once Upon a Grind emerged from our decades of living and working in New York City. Although the Queen Catherine Café is fictional, you can visit two places that inspired it: Seher (aka Old Bridge/Stari Most) in Astoria, Queens; and Bosna Express in Ridgewood, Queens. You can also visit the Papaya King’s original hot dog shop on Manhattan’s Upper East Side (papayaking.com); go to a poetry slam at the Nuyorican Poets Café on the Lower East Side (nuyorican.org); and even try Gardner’s favorite chicken and waffles plate at Amy Ruth’s in Harlem (amyruthsharlem.com).

  The staff at Penguin’s Berkley Prime Crime is among the best in the business, and we sincerely thank them for shepherding this tale into publication.

  We send special thanks to Wendy McCurdy, our longtime editor, whose ongoing encouragement and trust in us has kept us writing. Thanks also to her assistant editor, Katherine Pelz, for all her help.

  A beautiful shout-out goes to Cathy Gendron for her magical cover art; and the brilliant Berkley Prime Crime team who helped craft this book: art director Rita Frangie; interior designer Kristin del Rosario; production editor Stacy Edwards; and copyeditor Joan Matthews.

  We salute our agent, John Talbot, for his thoughtfulness, professionalism, and unflagging support.

  Last but far from least, we tip our hats to Nancy Prior Phillips, whose courage and optimism has been an inspiration to us.

  To everyone else whom we could not mention here 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 the social networking sites, your kind encouragement keeps us going as writers, and we cannot thank you enough for that.

  Our virtual coffeehouse is always open. You are welcome to join us at coffeehousemystery.com.

  —Cleo Coyle,

  New York City

  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-THREE

  CHAPTER THI
RTY-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

  EPILOGUE

  Recipes & Tips from the Village Blend

  If you ever find yourself in the wrong story, leave.

  —Mo Willems, Goldilocks and the Three Dinosaurs

  PROLOGUE

  Turn back, turn back, young maiden fair.

  Linger not in the murderers’ lair . . .

  —THE BROTHERS GRIMM, THE ROBBER BRIDEGROOM

  IN the fading light of the dying day, the Princess glided along the tree-lined path, gossamer gown sparkling as if sprinkled with fairy dust. When she reached the Oak Bridge, she stopped.

  “This way . . .” the Predator called.

  The Princess studied the shadows. Little white teeth gnawed at pink fingernails. Finally, she stepped off the path, onto uncertain ground.

  She had agreed to this meeting in the Ramble, the oldest section of Central Park. There were towering trees here and menacing boulders; cloudy streams and historic bridges. Most of all, there were thirty-eight acres of landscape magic—rustic paths that made an entire city disappear.

  “Did you . . . did you make decision?” the Princess asked, her sweet voice betraying her Russian accent.

  Forcing a smile, the Predator began a practiced speech, telling the girl everything she hoped to hear.

  “Thank you,” the Princess replied, eyes filling with grateful tears. With a hard yank, she broke the valuable chain around her neck. A golden key dangled at the end of it. She held it out to the Predator.

  “Now that deal is off, please take back.”

  The Predator frowned. “I can’t take your key, Anya.”

  “But you said I was free.”

  “From me,” the Predator lied. “The rest is not my business.”

  Anya hesitated. Then she nodded and turned to go, content in the belief that at least the deal between them was dead.

  Not exactly, the Predator thought. “Anya, stop! Don’t move.”

  The Princess froze. “What is problem?”

  “Your gown is caught on a branch. Another step will ruin it.”

  “Gown is special,” the Princess wailed. “I was told to take care!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll free it.”

  Squatting in the dirt, the Predator pretended to fuss with the expensive fabric. “Princess Pink” is what they called it—more like bubble-headed bubble gum, the Predator thought, for it wasn’t the dress that was caught, but the girl who wore it.

  “You are so kind to help,” the Princess said.

  “Almost done,” the Predator promised, getting the needle ready. Leaning closer, the Predator whiffed the girl’s scent. She even smelled like all the others, the cloying perfume of eager sheep . . .

  “Ouch!”

  “Did I prick you? I’m sorry . . .”

  “Is okay,” Anya said. “I am free now, yes?”

  The Predator didn’t answer, simply watched the sparkling shroud drift away, through the trees and whispering leaves. In mere minutes, shadows would lengthen; the late afternoon breeze would take on a corpselike chill. That’s when the drug would do its work, and this beauty—like the troublesome little pet she was—would be put to sleep.

  The Predator smiled at a job well done, barely hearing the tinny speakers of the Delacorte Theater, quieting brats with an ancient phrase.

  “Once upon a time . . .”

  ONE

  Control your own destiny or someone else will.

  —JACK WELCH

  Once upon that morning . . .

  “WHAT’S the matter with you, Clare? Don’t you want a little magic in your life?”

  My ex-husband thrummed his fingers on our coffee truck’s countertop.

  I refilled the napkin holders, ignoring him.

  “Come on,” he pressed, “nearly every member of our staff has visited our resident gypsy, everyone but you.”

  “I’ve told you, Matt. I’ve sworn off fortune telling.”

  “But today is special—”

  “What will it take to get through to you? Maybe I should text you? Adopt our daughter’s favorite way of indicating emphasis by using periods after every word: I. Am. Not. Reading. Coffee. Grinds. Today.”

  “And I’m not asking you to. I simply want Madame Tesla to read yours.”

  I took a breath for patience. This morning had started out so perfectly. The brisk October dawn had painted the sky with a golden light, making Central Park’s dewy grass glisten like a fairy glen. Even the chill in the air was ideal for enjoying my freshly roasted coffee.

  New York’s favorite waking potion was something I usually brewed downtown, among the picturesque lanes of the historic West Village. But today I’d joined a few of my baristas on our coffee truck. By 8 AM, we were stocked up and parked in our assigned spot with the other food vendors near Central Park’s Turtle Pond, a stone’s throw from the Delacorte Theater, home of Shakespeare in the Park.

  The only real challenge facing me at this early hour was Matteo Allegro—my former partner in marriage and current partner in business.

  “Look, Matt, I realize you’re trying to get some buzz going for these so-called ‘magic beans’ you’ve sourced from Ethiopia, but you’re the one handling the Seer’s tent. Why do I have to be involved?”

  “Our gypsy knows you learned tasseography from your grandmother. If you don’t let her show off for you, she’ll be insulted, and—”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “I did. That’s the reason!” One look at my expression and he threw up his hands. “Look, even if
it isn’t, what harm is there in humoring a nice old lady?” Matt’s big, brown bedroom eyes were now blinking at me. This was his “hurt little boy” look, the one designed to make me feel guilty.

  Unfortunately, it did. But like a lot of things that preyed upon me lately, I ignored it.

  “I’m too busy,” I said.

  “You are not—” Matt tapped his watch. “The Kingdom doesn’t open for another hour . . .”

  “The Kingdom” was New York’s inaugural Storybook Kingdom, a weekend festival celebrating the Brothers Grimm, Mother Goose, and classic literary characters beloved by children of all ages. In sixty minutes, families would be streaming into this Central Park compound for arts and crafts, costume contests, even a Fairy Tale Village with jugglers, puppeteers, and knights in shining armor. The whole production was dreamed up by the mayor’s office. And since Matt’s mother—our esteemed octogenarian employer—happened to sit on the Fairy Tale Fall events committee, we were roped into service.

  “You’re done setting up, aren’t you?” Matt pressed.

  “Yes, but the festival staff has kept us hopping since we parked. Here comes another wave . . .”

  Matt stepped back as Esther and I filled coffee drink orders for two knights, a court jester, and a half-dressed dragon. When I looked up again, I saw that Matt’s focus on fortune telling had finally shifted—to a slinky princess in scarlet.

  The young woman’s gown had a full, filmy skirt that sparkled in the morning sun. Its stunning red color was repeated in the bright streaks streaming through her soot black, chin-length hair.

  “Has Pink Princess come by for coffee?” she asked Matt, her low voice hinting at a Russian accent.

  “I don’t know. What does the Pink Princess look like?”

  The Red Princess laughed. “If you saw her, you would not be asking! My friend is gorgeous. Long blond hair, nearly to waist, and she is very much taller than I.”

  “Sorry, I haven’t seen her,” Matt replied.

  “If you do, tell her to call Red.”

  Matt smiled. “You have a phone in that getup?”

  “Is strapped to my thigh,” the girl informed him with a playful wink. “And is set on vibrate. Want to see?”

  I shook my head, hardly surprised by the flirtation. Well into his forties, my ex was old enough to be the young woman’s father, yet his muscular good looks and world-traveler ease made him the most attractive man in sight.